Holmes Will Come A Wassailing
by Domina Temporis
Summary: It's that time of year again! My answers to Hades Lord of the Dead's December Challenge, featuring Holmes, Watson and any combination of Canonical characters as needed. I go where the prompts send me.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Back for another year of Hades Lord of the Dead's December Challenge! First prompt: Circumstances seem grim, but all is not lost from V Tsuion

* * *

As my friend, Sherlock Holmes, became more famous the world over for his powers of deductive reasoning, he and I were often asked by those whose curiosity, perhaps, overcame their discretion, why he chose to associate himself so closely with a relatively unknown, unremarkable, former Army doctor.

While my friend dismissed such inquiries as nonsense, the question brought to mind some old worries I had once had about our compatibility as fellow lodgers and later as friends, and I confess I could not help but understand the reason for such questions. Sherlock Holmes was perhaps the most brilliant detective the world has yet produced, but he possessed few, if any, of the softer emotions and indeed, often scoffed at them. Sentiment was a feeling foreign to him. He strove to be the most perfect reasoning machine in human history and in this he largely succeeded. He had little patience for the eccentricities and idiosyncrasies of his fellow man, save as they provided interesting questions for his ever racing mind to mull over. This despite his own considerable list of eccentricities that combined to mean that few would consider him an ideal companion. I had often thought to myself that Holmes had first struck me as a very lonely man, and despite our long years together, seemed little inclined to alleviate that loneliness with anyone other than myself. Of course, on the few occasions I brought up the subject, he would simply scoff and pronounce grandly that he had no use for "the little social trivialities that, instead of brightening one's days, turn them into a long, drawn-out sequence of dull obligations that are worse than any black mood that has ever overtaken me," before asking me to hand over the paper.

Of course, I could not do other than wonder what it was about myself that made me the lone exception to Holmes's intense misanthropy. I consider myself a reasonable man, not given to feelings of superiority of conceit, and considered myself no better or worse than any other gentleman of my position and standing in London, of which there were many. I had, perhaps, lived a life that was a trifle more adventurous than most, and perhaps was somewhat more skilled with a pistol than my fellow Londoners, but in every other way I seemed even to myself to be wholly unremarkable. But as Holmes so seriously abhorred any discussion of the softer feelings, especially with regard to himself, I put the question out of my mind as one that I should never find the answer to.

It was a bitterly cold day in December of 1896 that I had reason to ponder the question again. While usually crime slowed down in winter, that December had been an unusually busy one. I recall a particularly vicious set of murders in a part of London that normally did not see such occurrences, only to see it repeated exactly some days later in an utterly different part of London. It reminded everyone of the Ripper murders that had so terrified London some years before, and perhaps remembering that he had failed to bring that monster to justice, my friend threw himself into the new case with utter abandon, barely eating or sleeping for weeks. It was to no avail, for after the the third such murder in the span of nine days, Holmes returned to our shared rooms and sat himself upon the settee with a look of despair the like of which I had not seen since Moriarty. "Holmes, whatever is the matter?" I asked in some concern.

Holmes heaved a great sigh and began laying out the facts of the case. "I may have met my match, Watson. This murderer has all the signs of being as great a mastermind in the field of crime as Moriarty. Every clue leads to a dead end, he is adept at covering his tracks, and the victims have all been found in different areas and have no connections to each other!"

I recognized the frustration in my friend's voice. He always felt it keenly when he could not bring a case to a satisfactory conclusion, taking it as a personal failing. That this case had so far resulted in the deaths of ten people could only exacerbate his feelings. For all his denial of the softer emotions, Holmes took it very hard on those occasions he lost a client or could not prevent a death, a feeling I understood perfectly. I felt the same whenever I lost a patient, as all doctors must. "You had found a scrap of shoe leather by the scene of the last murder, had you not?" I asked. "That did not lead to any further clues?"

"None!" Holmes exclaimed in frustration. "The fiend must have left it there deliberately, for it only led back to the workplace of one of the victims."

I settled back in my chair, mulling over the problem, though I had no hope of solving it where Sherlock Holmes could not. I only wished I could shed some light on it, for I hated to think that another such grouping of murder victims should be found. The police had, at this point, worked out the pattern, and it seemed as if every three days, the killer would strike. It had now been three days since the last victims were found, and I realized with horror that if Holmes did not figure out the murderer's identity and whereabouts, we would likely be reading about another such murder in tomorrow's morning papers. I glanced at my friend. "Perhaps you should eat something, my dear fellow," I said. "You cannot have any hope of solving the case if you have no strength."

"I cannot possibly think of eating, Watson," Holmes snapped. "You know very well I do not eat on cases regardless!"

Used as I was to my friend's dark moods, and how they often flared during a frustrating case, I thought little of his outburst and instead reached for the newspaper. If I was hoping for a distraction, I was disappointed, for the news was all about the current spate of murders and useless speculation about who was behind them. My eyes were drawn to a map in the corner of the front page, which showed the locations of the previous three murder scenes. "Holmes? Is there no way to predict where the next murder will take place?" I asked. I pointed to the map. "You see it seems to be a pattern."

"That is what Lestrade thought at first," Holmes said. "In fact, after the first two we were so certain of it that we were lying in wait here-" he pointed at a spot at the top left corner of the map "-only to find that the murder struck here instead." His hand moved to a spot on the center. I could see immediately what Lestrade had thought; that the murdered was making a triangle across London. But the current pattern, two aligned at the center and the bottom of the map and one in the top right corner, made little sense.

"Oh," I said, disappointed. "Well, I am certain you shall make sense of it, Holmes. You have solved worse cases in your time."

"I am sure that I have, Watson, yet this time-" he broke off suddenly, sitting up straight, his eyes widening. Convinced he was having some sort of fit, I leapt to my feet.

"Holmes, are you alright? You simply must eat something and rest, my dear fellow-"

Holmes shook off my ministrations and stood up immediately, pulling on his traveling cape. "Eat? Watson, you have no idea, do you? You have solved it!"

"I have?" I asked, in some bewilderment, for I was not aware of having solved anything.

"_Time_," Holmes said, reaching for the newspaper. "You see? The killer is recreating a clock, telling us at which time he will commit his crimes. Each murder was done at the dead of night, after any witnesses would be long asleep."

I looked at the map until the picture began to be clear to me. "1:30 in the morning?" I asked.

"Precisely," Holmes said. "But that is not all, Watson, no. It is also the form of a letter, do you see?"

I searched the map, but I only met my friend's eye blankly. "I confess I cannot see it, Holmes."

"Why?" Holmes said, at which point I bristled.

"Come, Holmes, I may not be a genius as you are but to demand of me why I cannot see something that is plain to you-"

"No, no, no," Holmes said impatiently. "Y, Watson, the letter Y! It is,as of now, incomplete, but I wager that at 1:30 this coming morning, we shall find our killer lurking in this exact street." He pointed triumphantly at a certain spot on the map that I could see right away would form a letter Y across London. "Come, Watson! Circumstances seem grim, but all is not lost! We must inform Lestrade right away. We shall have a team of policemen at our backs tonight and a murderer in prison by breakfast!"

My friend's excitement was as all-encompassing as his frustration and boredom, and he was never in finer form than when he was on the verge of solving a difficult case. His thin cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered so that he appeared as if he could exist purely on his own exhilaration for days. I took my coat from the coat rack and followed him, determined to see the case to its finish. "Remarkable, Holmes," I said as we waited for a hansom. "That you were able to determine the pattern."

"Oh, it is simple, Watson," he said, though his look of pleasure at my compliment showed his appreciation. "Besides, it is you who steered me in the right direction, as you so often do. I have said it before, that some men have the gift of igniting genius in others despite not possessing the faculty themselves, and you most certainly are one of those, Watson."

It was the most effusive praise he had yet given me, and so I chose to ignore that he did not believe I possessed the faculty of genius. Of course, I did not, and it was to my satisfaction that I was able to assist my friend in the work he did. If I could help to bring criminals to justice through him, I should consider my life well spent.

Holmes, however, was in a talkative mood, and continued on, "Why, there are countless of my cases that I am sure I should never have solved had you not led me exactly where I needed to go. Sometimes inadvertently, it is true. Still, it is something to tell all those busybodies who continually ask why I continue to associate with you."

This last came as rather a surprise, for until that moment I was unsure if Holmes had ever taken note of the number of times we were indeed asked this. I smiled in gratitude. "Perhaps I should include it in a story, then. When you give me permission to begin writing again."

"You know how I dislike those stories, Watson," Holmes said in a long-suffering tone. "However, if it will make everyone stop prying into our private business…"

I smiled. "Relax, Holmes, you know I shall not publish until you give the word."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Watson, that hardly matters now," he answered peevishly. "We have a murderer to catch. Can this hansom not go any faster?"


	2. Chapter 2

Prompt: Holmes loses Watson, from BookRookie12

A/N Found myself missing the Christmas Market in Edinburgh as I wrote this, so I indulged myself and made it fit in

* * *

I suspect that if anyone ever does read the little stories Watson has written of my cases (though Heaven help anyone who seeks to learn my methods through them, as they are the most romantic, frivolous drivel this side of a penny dreadful) will imagine that I am an adventurous sort who lives in constant search of new thrills and experiences. In truth, I am nothing of the sort, preferring above nearly all else a quiet day of study in my own sitting room, only venturing out when an interesting problem presents itself.

I also suspect Watson would disagree with me regarding this, though on the rare occasions he attempts to disagree with me at all, I need only bring up the events of December 1887 to remind him of my position being the correct one.

In those days, it was unusual for me to accept a case outside of England, or even outside of London, which suited me perfectly. While later in my career I came to be of service throughout much of Europe and many far-flung areas of the Empire, I have always much preferred to remain in familiar surroundings and I know nowhere so well as I know London. However, on this occasion, Watson and I had been removed from our comfortable Baker Street rooms to take a case in Edinburgh. We were, at the time, both eager to accept, as crime had been slow those last few weeks and I was becoming desperate for something to do. The problem promised to be an interesting one (else I should not have been so willing to accept traveling in December to a city where the winter sun sets at three of an afternoon. Little wonder Edinburgh is known for its seedy underside and inventive criminals!). Watson, for his part, viewed the trip as something of a homecoming, for he was of Scots descent and was eager to explore the city's rich history, something I was not averse to myself. There had been a particularly famous case of grave-robbing in Edinburgh some years previously…

In any event, upon the completion of the case we found ourselves with considerable time on our hands and not a small amount of money from our grateful employer, something we were little accustomed to in those days. We passed a pleasant morning walking through the public gardens when we happened to pass one of the Christmas markets that seem to pop up with alarming speed every December. Now, I am not averse to the holiday itself. In fact, since Watson and I had begun to share rooms it had proven to be a day we had both come to enjoy greatly, but I had limited patience with the amount of false cheer the rest of the populace seemed determined to put on for the entire month of December, and as such, I had made it a habit to avoid all Christmas markets.

Watson, in this as in so much else, is my exact opposite, and has yet to see a Christmas market he does not wish to attend. Usually I have managed to be elsewhere when the mood takes him, though on this occasion I suspected I could not avoid it. "It is a good place to do some Christmas shopping," he suggested mildly as we passed. I say mildly, though for certain Watson knows exactly how to convince me to do what he wants. How else am I to explain the raised eyebrow that said he knew I had yet to even consider purchasing a gift for Mrs. Hudson?

"Oh, very well," I said. "Lead on, Watson." He smiled at me fondly, though I really could not say why. He did not need _my_ permission to attend a Christmas market and I had never stopped him, even I did proceed on home by myself so I did not have to attend with him.

We walked slowly through the various stalls, perusing what was available for sale, none of which was suitable as a gift for one's landlady and much of which seemed to be various sweet treats, all of which Watson seemed inclined to try. As every dessert booth seemed to be surrounded by crying children, and as Watson had long ago put me in charge of stopping his frivolous spending, I did my utmost to turn his attention elsewhere, though I only barely managed it in each case.

I found nothing to catch my interest until I noticed a silversmith's display with several fine magnifying glasses for sale. They could prove very useful in reading medieval manuscripts, and I hurried forward to look. So intent was I on viewing them, I hardly noticed Watson telling me he wished to go see something else and waved him on.

Some moments later, a new magnifying glass safely in my pocket, I turned to find myself alone. Watson was nowhere to be seen in the surrounding crowd, and I had no inkling of where he might be. Fool! I racked my brains, trying to remember where Watson had said he was going. In search of mulled wine, perhaps? I searched the crowds, pushing my way through women with gaggles of children. There was no sign of Watson anywhere.

I hurried down to the end of the row and turned down the next. A quick glance over the heads of the crowd told me Watson was not among them. How the devil could he disappear so quickly? It is not as if the Christmas market was so very large.

No. No, it wasn't so very large, and this was, if nothing else, a case and I should treat it as such. Leave aside that it was Watson missing, if I had been tasked to find a missing child at such an event, what would I do? Take note of what the child looked like and ask if anyone had seen them. I looked around, and there, at the end of the previous row of booths, was a policeman. At last!

"I seem to have lost my friend in the crowd. Perhaps you've seen him pass by?" I asked. "He has fair hair and mustache, blue eyes, and was wearing a black overcoat and a dark brown suit. Oh, and he has a slight limp in his left foot and carries a black stick with a silver knob handle."

The policeman, who I imagine was spending more time enjoying himself at the fair then doing his job, simply shrugged. "Could be anyone here, couldn't it?"

"No, it certainly couldn't!" I said peevishly, though aside from his limp, Watson did greatly resemble any number of Englishmen. Well, then, the police having proven themselves as useful in Edinburgh as they were anywhere, I was free to begin my own investigation. Perhaps the fellow at the silversmith's booth had been more observant than I and had seen which direction Watson had gone (I should have to remember not to allow myself to get so distracted in future, else I shall no longer be able to pride myself on my skills of observation). Yet, as I walked, the sky began to darken, and I tugged my coat collar up angrily. Infernal northern latitudes. Who the deuce decides to build a city so dreadfully far north? The coming darkness would make it impossible to find Watson, and the market would undoubtedly be closing down soon for the evening. Not for the first time, I wished myself and Watson back in London, where I knew everything and exactly the sorts of places he would go. Here, how would I even begin to guess? Watson did not know the city any better than I; he could easily be lost among its quickly darkening, twisting alleys. He would be an easy mark for any criminal looking for any passing gentleman to rob. Or worse. I had seen far too many such crimes, and my devilishly overactive imagination immediately began going over the grisly details of every murder of an unsuspecting gentleman I had yet come acrosss. And of course, those who were not local were at higher risk. And though I had seen Watson more than hold his own in a fight, his limp was always worse in cold weather and I doubted that he would be in any shape to defend himself should he come across some villain.

I should have to declare myself the worst detective in the world upon my return to Baker Street after this, as I could not even keep track of Watson, nor, it seems, find him once he was missing. I should have to find a map somewhere, to start a search of the surrounding streets. Perhaps he went back to the gardens, as it was one of the few places we both knew. Yes, he must have. Watson was a sensible man, after all, and he would have known to return to a spot known to us both. If he had not run into a murderer on the way, that is.

I turned to make my way back to the gardens, so intent on my goal that I hardly took note of my surroundings when I happened to bump into someone. "Do excuse me," I said, though I made it clear in my tone that I was annoyed at the delay it caused, only to start in surprise at the voice that answered me.

"Holmes? I have been looking for you everywhere!"

I gaped at Watson, now standing in front of me holding two cups of mulled wine and looking relieved. "Watson? Whatever are you doing there?"

"Looking for you," Watson said. "I thought I had left you at the silversmith's but when I went back the man said you were gone, and I couldn't find you at all. I thought you'd left. Here, old fellow, drink some wine, you look dreadful."

I took the offered cup and took a sip. "For heaven's sake, Watson, I have been looking for _you_ everywhere! I turned around and you had completely disappeared. I thought you'd been kidnapped, or murdered!" Now that I said it out loud, I realized how utterly foolish I must have sounded. We had simply been separated and missed each other in a crowded area, a very common occurrence. Considerably more likely than murder, at any rate. I should have remembered that, given how often the simplest explanation in a case is usually the right one.

Watson, however, simply looked at me in the sympathetic way he has. "Well, I am perfectly alright, Holmes. I daresay no one is going to be murdered here today, and now I've found you again."

"I should not have let my mind run away with me," I said, annoyed at myself. But it is rather a difficult thing, with a mind like mine, to rein it in.

"Well, it is understandable, given your line of work, that you should immediately imagine the worst," Watson said reassuringly. "I often have to remind myself that a small cough does not always mean pneumonia."

Dear Watson! He always knows just what to say. I finished the wine and linked my arm through his (whatever else, I should be sure not to lose him again). "Come, Watson, I find myself rather tired of Christmas, and our client told me about a wonderful little pub we should try before we leave."

"Lead the way, Holmes," Watson said, then smiled mischievously. "Perhaps I shall finally convince you to try haggis."

"I would not push your luck, Watson." Oh, I would be very glad to leave Edinburgh behind and return to London at last!


	3. Chapter 3

Prompt: Go to this link - :/ .com(forward slash)random-words - and write a story that incorporates all 12 of the words that are generated, from Hades Lord of the Dead

The words I got were: Word, Obsequious, Adamant, Lamentable, Desk, Bite, Lean, Square, Sink, Month, Blow, Cats

* * *

Mrs. Hudson looked over the advertisement one last time before handing it over to the young man at the newspaper, wondering when men in their twenties had begun to appear young to her. She was only in her early thirties herself, but she supposed that was one more thing that came with the sudden transition into widowhood. _Young_ widowhood. She was still adamant on that point. She knew that anyone reading her advertisement would picture an elderly woman who spent her days cooking and embroidering, and well, perhaps she would have to, when it came to cooking at least. If she meant to have lodgers she supposed she would have to feed them. She sighed as she left the newspaper office. It was hardly how she pictured her life, having to essentially give her home up to someone else and keep house for them. It was only a few short years ago that she and Tom had been so happy to afford the stately townhome in such a good location thanks to his inheritance from his uncle. Inheritance Tom had run through in little enough time before his death. Accidental, they had said at the factory, and he the foreman who shouldn't have been anywhere near machinery that dangerous!

Oh, well. There was no use in wishing. Mrs. Hudson had done enough of that in her neighbors' kitchens, which was where she'd got the idea of taking in lodgers in the first place. Mrs. Turner next door had had a succession of them over the years, and Mrs. Ebbert in 230 down the street now had two in addition to her husband and her brood of children. If they could do it, Mrs. Hudson reasoned, she certainly could. Though she rather hoped she would find a nice, quiet young gentleman who wouldn't be much bother for her. Mrs. Turner's current lodger, a junior banker called Potter, certainly always paid his rent on time but he had an obsequious manner Mrs. Hudson found distasteful, for all that it meant he did every odd job that needed doing around the house. Well, she supposed she had no control over that. She could only hope that her requirements for a lodger fit into the little square the newspaper would give her on the advertising page. She hoped especially whoever answered her advertisement would listen to her carefully laid out rules about pets, as she was dreadfully allergic to cats.

"Well, I see you've sent out your advertisement!" Mrs. Turner said gaily as she let herself into the kitchen of 221 Baker Street the next morning, nearly causing Mrs. Hudson to drop all her breakfast dishes into the sink in fright.

"I felt it was better to get it over with. If it was still sitting on my desk this morning I would have lost all my nerve and never sent it out," Mrs. Hudson answered. "I do hope I get someone."

"It's an excellent location," Mrs. Turner said encouragingly. "I always have prospective lodgers in and out for days whenever my rooms go empty."

Mrs. Hudson tried to look excited about this, though the prospect of strange men traipsing in and out of her carefully kept home for days did nothing to excite her. How she wished she had the means to remain in her home on her own terms and had done her best to set them for her prospective lodgers. If she had perhaps set her price a _trifle _higher than the other rooms on the street, well, she had standards to maintain, after all. She didn't want the wrong sort living above her head, possibly for years.

As it turned out, Mrs. Turner was absolutely correct, and by the end of the month, Mrs. Hudson had seen more apprentice engineers, junior clerks, university students and lawyers than she imagined lived in all England, let alone in London. Several simply left in dejection, unable to afford her price, while others had some quality or other that made Mrs. Hudson quite certain she would not like to live anywhere near them, never mind directly underneath them. Why, two of the junior clerks smelled faintly but distinctly of gin as she spoke to them and at least one of the university students seemed likely to spend his days in wanton laziness, as he declared he was not at all interested in his studies and that his father was paying for his rooms. Mrs. Hudson sent the lad on his way, sure that this would lead to no good for her future prospects as a landlady. In fact, the state of each prospective lodger was so lamentable that Mrs. Hudson soon despaired of finding someone suitable to take her rooms.

She spent Christmas alone, caught up in the double blow of it being the first holiday since Tom's death and the prospect that she might have to sell her home and move in with her sister. People always seemed to expect the widowed aunt to be perfectly happy to raise their siblings' children free of charge. Well, Mrs. Hudson thought, she had no intention of doing _that_. She'd come to London for a better life and that, she decided, was exactly what she was going to have. She sat down that very instant and wrote out a new advertisement, each word carefully chosen to attract the sort of gentleman who she wouldn't mind cooking for, who would pay on time and not cause her much fuss.

That is not, Mrs. Hudson had to admit years later, what she got, though she had no inkling of that at the time. The young man who answered her new advertisement gave no indication of being anything other than a gentleman. The only things Mrs. Hudson took note of her prospective lodger, who introduced himself with the odd name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was that he was so excessively lean he seemed considerably taller than he was, and that this, combined with his hawk like nose, gave him the appearance of a rather large bird of prey.

This, instead of making her wary, made Mrs. Hudson wonder how often this poor young man had a decent meal, and whether he would appreciate being offered a bite to eat. She considered this a very good start to the interview, on the whole. She hadn't had the urge to take care of any of the other prospective lodgers like this. He seemed quiet enough, pleased with the rooms and inquiring only about whether he would be allowed to conduct chemical experiments and use the sitting room as his place of business, explaining that his occupation was from home on most occasions. While not particularly liking the prospect of more people traipsing in and out of her house, she had to admit she rather liked this young man, and she was, after all, a self-employed businesswoman herself. She felt she could not forbid him from doing nearly exactly what she herself did. It certainly wouldn't be fair if she expected to make any money off of him.

But Mr. Holmes's already pale face went paler at the price, and while Mrs. Hudson felt rather sorry for a young man who seemed to be having difficulty making it in London, she didn't feel sorry enough to lower her price, and sent him on his way rather sadly, expecting never to see him again and to have to choose from among the various, almost interchangeable junior clerks and lawyers who were still inquiring.

But barely a week had passed before Mr. Holmes sent her another message, asking if he might bring a companion to look at the rooms with him. Mrs. Hudson was a bit startled - she had intended on taking in two lodgers - but after nearly three months searching for a lodger she was getting desperate and agreed. Mr. Holmes turned up the next day with another young man who, if anything, seemed almost designed to make Mrs. Hudson feel sorry for him. The second fellow introduced himself as Dr. Watson, recently returned from Afghanistan, though Mrs. Hudson felt sure she would have guessed this. If Mr. Holmes was lean, Dr. Watson was so thin it could only be the result of a serious illness, and she noticed a sharp intake of breath as he leaned on the bannister to climb the stairs, the result, he said, of a shoulder wound that had nearly taken his life.

"It must be difficult to return, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said by way of conversation, standing in what would be their sitting room if they chose to take the rooms. Mr. Holmes, while polite, did not seem to invite much conversation, while Dr. Watson smiled broadly and seemed glad to talk to someone. She gathered he had been lonely of late.

"To tell the truth, I'm very glad to be back. The army did nothing but ruin my health and destroy my finances. I'm very much looking forward to recovering fully and returning to civilian life," he said, then turned a bright red. "Oh, I didn't mean to insinuate that I might not be able to keep up my half of the rent. I assure you, I receive a pension."

Mrs. Hudson found herself smiling. "I'm certain you are, Doctor, I have no worries on that account." She leaned in closer. "How do you know Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, I don't, really," Dr. Watson answered. "I met him yesterday, in fact. It seemed a decent idea to share the burden, especially for such nice rooms, and I would much prefer to share than to live alone."

Mrs. Hudson thought it rather strange that Dr. Watson should agree to share rooms with someone he had only just met, though it did not seem at all odd for Mr. Holmes, as if she already had the idea that he would do nothing whatsoever that could be considered conventional. But then again, perhaps it wasn't so very strange. After all, Mr. Holmes was perfectly charming, but could not claim any job she was familiar with and now intended on taking the rooms with a veteran clearly ill enough that he could not work. And she was thoroughly intending on throwing out all her well-thought-out standards to rent her rooms to them! She ought to sit down with herself and have a talking-to about potential missed rents and legal troubles when it came to eviction.

But in the end, they each signed the proper papers and they moved in by the end of the week. She just had a feeling about the two of them, was what she would say later, when magazines clamored at her door, asking for interviews about the famous detective who had lived upstairs. For all Mr. Holmes carried on about facts and deductive reasoning, even he was at a loss to explain why she had decided to rent her upstairs rooms to two young men who must have seemed decidedly odd and at the end of their respective ropes. She could never say why. Just a feeling, one that she admitted to rather regretting sometimes as she listened to violin solos at three in the morning or climbed the stairs to find bullet holes in the walls, but never for long.


	4. Chapter 4

Prompt: Twine, from Wordwielder

* * *

It was very late one night in 1883 that Sherlock Holmes and I returned to our Baker Street rooms at the conclusion of a case, one that had been rather a closer call than either of us were accustomed to. I hung my hat upon the hook with the distinct feeling of relief, for it was the first case I can remember where it could conceivably have ended with one of us in the hospital, or worse. Still, I could not help but be proud that together, we had brought down a burglar who had become the terror of East London these past few weeks. Our partnership was still new in those days, yet when I found myself pushed against the wall of a dark alley, a knife at my throat, Holmes didn't hesitate before firing a shot past the fiend's head, causing him to start and drop me. I wasted no time in putting my rugby training to good use and soon had the fellow on the ground in a tackle. I considered that in two short years, Holmes and I had become a good team, if we were able to work in such tandem.

We found ourselves beside the fire in our sitting room with little desire to go to bed despite the lateness of the hour. I was much too awake from the fight we had had with the criminal and Holmes regularly stayed up past dawn in his studies. I thought over the case we had just completely, our long vigil waiting for the criminal to appear and then the fight we had had. It occurred to me that it should not have taken two of us so long to overpower one man, even though he had been larger and stronger than both of us. Though I could not see what either of us could have done differently. "We shall have to be more careful, Holmes," I said at last. "That was far too close."

"Ah, Watson! I have been thinking much the same lately," Holmes said. "It was different when you were only accompanying me to prove my theories right. If these little problems are going to run more in the line of fighting criminals face-to-face, perhaps we should rethink our association."

This was not at all what I had expected, and I confess to some hurt. "Holmes, do you mean to say I should not accompany you?"

"It is not a lack of regard, Watson," Holmes said, though with so little emotion in his voice that anyone who did not know him as I did could easily think he held me in no more regard than his side table. "It is easy enough to justify taking such risks myself, but you merely volunteer to assist on these cases. It is hardly fair to expect you to take such risks yourself."

"I do not see it as unfair at all!" I cried. "In fact, I consider it much more unfair to allow you take the risks yourself if I can prevent it."

"Doctor, I do not feel I have the right to ask a friend to go into danger with me," Holmes said firmly. "You may not realize, Watson, that although I have had little chance to make use of it yet, I have trained extensively for the dangerous portion of my occupation. Fencing, boxing, singlesticks, baritsu, marksmanship - all so that I might not find myself outmatched by my enemies."

"Are you saying, Holmes, that you think I am not trained enough to accompany you into danger?" I asked and Holmes's expression said what he did not. I could not help smiling. "Allow me to tell you something about Afghanistan, Holmes."

I had rarely spoken of my time in Her Majesty's Army, and Holmes appeared surprised by my willingness to talk of it now. He knew little other than that I had been wounded and fell ill before being invalided home. I had said, and it was the truth, that I had not distinguished myself as a solider. Yet, I did not want him to think I was utterly unprepared for danger. I lit a cigarette, offered one to my friend, and began to talk.

"I was sent to Afghanistan soon after arriving in India. I know the popular image of India is that of jungles, elephants, tigers and rich rajas. Afghanistan is nothing like that. It is a harsh, rocky land of mountains. The air is dry and in summers, yet bitterly cold in winter. There are few cities, and more warlords than wealthy kings. Anyone sent there must always remain on their guard, for in addition to warlords there are animals just as dangerous as those in India."

I paused and could not help but smile as I saw Holmes looking enraptured at my tale. I continued, "We lived mostly out of tents, moving toward our positions. As an Amy doctor, my tent was slightly bigger than those of the enlisted men, but was less private, for the men always felt as if they could come in and out if they were in need of a consultation. I was given a desk and a cot, and carried my personal belongings on horseback. It was not a luxurious way of life." Army life had truly not agreed with me, as I am by nature lazy and a late riser. Alas, for the financial considerations that had left any other career out of my grasp!

"I was, one morning, sitting at my desk, writing out prescriptions for several of the men who had fallen ill when Murray, my orderly, opened my tent flap and ran in. 'Doctor Watson! Captain said to tell you-' he fell silent and opened his mouth in horror, staring at something on the ground.

'What is it, Murray?' I asked, starting to get up.

No, sir, don't get up!' Murray cried. 'Look!'

He pointed toward the ground at my feet and there, twining its way up the leg of my chair, was a snake. I recognized the distinct caped head as that of a cobra."

At this, Holmes interrupted me. "A Caspian cobra?" he asked.

"Why, yes," I said in some surprise. "I only found that out later. However did you know?"

Holmes grinned. "It is my business to know all poisons, Watson, even those most exotic, and given the location you were in, the Caspian cobra seems the most likely one for you to come across. Did you know that cobra has the distinction of being the most venomous in the world? I have written a monograph on the subject of snakes and the varying degrees to which their venom is lethal."

Of course I had forgotten that if anyone were to know the various species of snake by their venom, it would be Sherlock Holmes. "I froze in my seat, not wanting to do anything to upset the snake," I continued. "I could only watch as the deadly creature made its way closer to me by the second. Murray was as frozen as I. I was certain I was going to die. Yet it occurred to me at the same time that it may very well have been in my cot. A useless observation, but the mind goes where it will. The fact that I had time to make such an observation caught my attention, however, and I glanced at the snake. It had reached the arm of the chair, but then stopped, seemingly exploring its surroundings with its tongue.

"I thought I would never have another chance, and I would have to move quickly. I moved faster than I believe I have ever moved before, all but leaping out of the chair. The sudden movement startled the snake, which lunged towards me, but I had got out of the way and reached for my service revolver - the very same one I bring on your cases, Holmes. I turned around in a flash and shot at it. One shot, and the snake went flying across the tent, before falling to the floor. 'Perfect shot, sir!' Murray said, going over to examine it. I cautiously went to join him, fearful lest the snake wake and attack again, but my quick aim had been true. I had shot the snake direct in the head. 'Well,' I said to Murray. 'I shall be glad never to see one of those again.'"

"So you see," I said to Holmes. "I am quite certain I can hold my own as your assistant. You know how much I enjoy it, and your odds against these villains you set yourself against will certainly be better if there are two of us."

"Certainly," Holmes said. "Especially if my assistant has aim that allows him to perfectly hit so small a target as a snake head in motion!" He shook his head. There were few things that impressed him, yet I believed I may just have succeeded in doing so. "I must say, Watson, you certainly know how to set a scene. I do not believe I will ever visit Afghanistan, for you have painted an accurate and compelling enough portrait that I feel I have been there."

"There would be little to interest you," I said. "Aside from the venomous snakes, of which there are many."

"Yes, that would be interesting to see in person," Holmes said. "Though I must say, how very fortunate you were that your orderly happened to walk in just in time to see the snake."

"Yes, otherwise I should not have noticed until it was too late, I fear," I said. "That is only the first time I owe Murray my life, for it was he who carried me from Maiwand after I was wounded."

Holmes remained silent for a moment, then said only, "It seems you were doubly fortunate in your orderly," before disappearing behind a cloud of smoke as if he were contemplating some new problem. I, for my part, took myself off to bed, satisfied that I had proved myself a worthy partner in the cases that came my friend's way.

* * *

A/N: I did research, and the Caspian really is the most venomous snake in the world, and even today, antivenom is less effective than with other cobras


	5. Chapter 5

Prompt: We are grown men. Why is this so difficult? from sirensbane

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade wasn't given to dragging his feet - very unbecoming of a police inspector, he thought - but if he could slow down a bit before having to make his report to Commissioner Whiting, he wouldn't mind at all. He glanced at Gregson, walking just as slowly next to him. Clearly they were, for once, in total agreement.

Until they reached the Commissioner's office, that is, where they both stopped outside the closed door. Their supervisor wasn't going to be happy with what they had to tell him; the biggest case of the year still open, the suspect still at large, having narrowly escaped even though every inspector in the division had been taken off their regular jobs to find him. Lestrade shared a glance with Gregson, wondering which of them looked more like a recalcitrant child having to confess their wrongdoing. Probably equally split, if he was honest. He knew the case would have gone much more smoothly had he and Gregson been able to put aside their differences and work together instead of arguing. If only his fellow inspector wasn't so blasted irritating, and often, just plain wrong. Lestrade remained convinced that his method, of lying in wait until the villain showed himself up, was the correct one. Gregson's method of trying to ambush the fellow, guns blazing, was sure to end with police casualties and no one in custody. If only his stubborn, pigheaded opposite had listened to him, they wouldn't be here now.

He glared at Gregson again for good measure. "Well?" Lestrade said expectantly.

"I'm not going in first," Gregson said, as if this were a perfectly obvious statement and not a passable impression of a five-year-old.

"What the devil do you mean, you're not going in first?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

"Well, then you go in, if it's not important," Gregson said, irritatingly calm.

Lestrade made to open the door, then thought better of it. Whichever of them opened the door first would undoubtedly have to begin the explanation of why they were there. He thought back over the case, wincing as a few particularly painful moments came to mind. Neither of them would come across very well in a telling of it. He and Gregson had spent most of the past few weeks at loggerheads, arguing over everything from how to rule out suspects to how to organize the filing of reports pertaining to the case (young Hopkins had put an end to that one after three agonizing days, by digging an old filing cabinet out of a disused cupboard and spending hours organizing the reports himself). If Lestrade said to go left, Gregson would invariably suggest going right instead, which, after several hours argument, had ended in Mr. Holmes declaring that _he_ would lead them in whichever way he felt like going, and that at least then they could be sure they were going the correct way. Not, Lestrade thought, that he had had any better luck in catching this fiend. It looked to be one of Mr. Holmes's few failures, and that made him more irritable than usual as well (a thing Lestrade had hardly believed possible) until they all frequently ended their days in vicious, several-sided arguments that only ended whenever Dr. Watson would finally decide he'd had enough and step in to resolve them.

In his better moments, Lestrade would admit to being sure that Dr. Watson had more sense than any of them, for they never saw _him_ get lost in petty arguments. Today was not one of his better moments, and he spared another second to be annoyed that Gregson had simply not followed his lead. "Well, I'm not going in first!" Lestrade said now, deciding that he liked his position too much to risk being the one to have to tell the head of all London's police how badly they'd failed. After so much bad press about the police, much of it, Lestrade had to admit, well-deserved, he didn't relish being the bearer of such bad news.

Now, however, he and Gregson simply stood outside the Commissioner's door, looking like absolute fools. "Well, we do have to tell him," Lestrade said, attempting to be the voice of reason, though it sounded more exasperated than anything else. Gregson made no move to do anything of the sort, and Lestrade burst out, "We are grown men! Why is this so difficult?"

"Well, if you want to take the fall for it, by all means," Gregson said, stepping back, and Lestrade nearly reached out and pulled him back by his sleeve.

"Oh, no. We're both to blame, and we'll do this together." Even if they hadn't done anything else in this whole blasted case together. Lestrade huffed in annoyance, sure that Gregson had been put on this Earth simply to make his life more difficult and wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve it. Why, Mr. Holmes himself was not so trying! Now that Lestrade thought of it, even Mr. Holmes had found a partner who he could have a good working relationship with, though it did so often seem to take the form of Dr. Watson simply telling him how intelligent he was (as if the man needed reminding!). Lestrade was not sure what lesson he should take from this. That if it was possible for Mr. Holmes, then it surely should be possible for himself and Gregson? Or that if even Mr. Holmes had managed it and Lestrade and Gregson couldn't, then it might simply not be possible? Or, Lestrade thought, as he saw Gregson eyeing him expectantly, that he was contemplating all this to put off the moment he would have to explain the whole situation to the Commissioner. And, thinking of Holmes, how to explain his presence away in addition to everything else. Lestrade was sure the Commissioner wouldn't be pleased to see an amateur given such free rein as they were all accustomed to giving their resident consulting detective.

Lestrade sighed, deciding that if he was going to be the one to enter the Commissioner's office, he could at least use it to lord it over Gregson in future, and reached for the doorknob. Which then opened of its own accord to reveal none other than Mr. Holmes.

"Ah, Lestrade, Gregson," Holmes said, as it was perfectly natural that he should be having a private meeting with the head of the London police. Although Lestrade thought, there was little Holmes could do that would surprise him anymore. If someone told him Mr. Holmes had invented wings and learned to fly, he suspected he would only sigh in exasperated anticipation of having to scoop him off of wherever he'd decided to try his new hobby. "You'll be happy to know I have explained to the Commissioner that the force did their very best to bring the suspect to justice, and that there was nothing more any of you could have done," Holmes continued, somehow managing to sound at his most masterful even though he had been on the case for weeks and knew very well that neither Lestrade nor Gregson had been anywhere near their very best.

"Yes," Commissioner Whiting said from his desk behind Holmes. "Gave a very good account of you both. It's a dreadful shame your hard work didn't see a better result, but your division was obviously dedicated and it was none of your doing. Between both of you and Mr. Holmes here, you're bound to catch the fellow eventually. Now, I've a great deal of work to do. I'll expect an update next week, where I sincerely hope to hear you've caught the fiend."

Lestrade hardly knew how to respond to this unexpected turn of events, and glanced from Holmes to Commissioner Whiting in confusion. "You, er, know each other?" he finally asked.

Whiting laughed. "Why, yes, of course! Worked on a case or two with you myself, didn't I, Holmes? Before I got promoted, that is. Do tell your brother I said hello, by the way." Holmes nodded his head before Whiting waved him out.

"I'll, er, get you that report next week, sir," Lestrade managed to squeak out, reeling from the shock that Commissioner Whiting not only knew Holmes but also knew his _brother_, who Lestrade still only knew as a legendary figure that may or may not have immense political power (it was common argument on the force as to whether he did or not, based on the few clues they'd managed to gather. His knowing Commissioner Whiting seemed to imply that he _did_, in Lestrade's opinion). Gregson simply gaped at Mr. Holmes as he closed the door behind him. Lestrade couldn't help being pleased to see him speechless, for once.

"I shall be upstairs with Bradstreet," Holmes said, businesslike, as if it were a perfectly normal occasion and he hadn't saved both their jobs and reputations. "He mentioned he had received a tip that might be relevant to the case and I doubt any of them can determine whether it is or not without me." He headed off without another word, and Lestrade and Gregson simply stared at each other.

"Do you mean to tell me we owe our jobs to _Sherlock Holmes_?" Gregson asked in a heated whisper, as soon as the man himself was gone.

"I expect so, and I expect you never to mention it again," Lestrade said, taking his rival by the arm and pulling back toward their division's offices. "Unless I'm very much mistaken he just put his reputation on the line for us, since he saw very well how badly we've done on this case so far."

"Oh," Gregson said, and Lestrade was pleased to see he at least had the grace to look embarrassed about it. "Not a word, Lestrade, I promise you."

"Good," Lestrade said. "Now, let's go see about this tip Bradstreet got. After that display, we've got to solve this one, or Holmes will never let us hear the end of it."


	6. Chapter 6

Prompt: Watson comes across a real genie and is granted three wishes, from Michael JG Meathook

A/N: As an angst queen, yes this one will get angsty. Brief thoughts of suicidal ideations and ending with WWI (because I will never let a December challenge pass without putting Holmes and Watson in WWI at least once).

Jinn don't actually grant wishes in Islamic tradition, so I left it vague. Did the jinn grant their wishes, or was it a figment of their imaginations? You decide.

* * *

India had, by the time I entered Her Majesty's service, had become known as a land of mysticism and magic, shrouded in mystery. I considered myself a thoroughly modern gentleman and believed none of it, convinced that such stories were similar to many things that had been commonly believed in Europe only a few short decades ago. Besides, the reasons I had for going into India at all, the need for employment and a lack of funds, could not have been more mundane. My impressions were proven correct, for when I arrived in Bombay I found a crowded, dirty city that was little different from any other.

It was not until we reached a small village in the northern reaches of India* that I saw even the slightest trace of mysticism. A small village, indistinguishable from any other, granted my company shelter for the night, and eager to see what sights there were, I ventured out. A small rock outcropping caught my eye, where I happened to notice something glinting in the dirt. I dug and after several minutes exertion, uncovered a small oil lamps, dusty with grit and wholly unremarkable. I had heard of the riches of the rajahs of India, though I had not seen any evidence of this myself, and resolved to take the lamp to one of the men of the company who had been in India for longer than I, and had more experience with its art and artifacts.

When I found the man, Corporal Ford, he was sitting discussing something with the village headman, who saw me approach and began talking animatedly, gesturing wildly at the lamp in my hand. I wished I understood more of the language than simple greetings! "What is it?" I asked Ford, who looked as if he was trying not to laugh.

"He says you've uncovered a jinn's lamp," Ford said. "And that you should put it back before you bring bad luck to us all."

"A jinn?" I asked, looking over the lamp.

"A genie," Ford clarified, and then I understood. As the stories and tales of our Eastern holdings began to be translated, I had thrilled to discover the adventures of Sinbad and Aladdin as many in England did. I eyed the lamp more closely. Could it truly be a lamp like in the story of Aladdin? Of course, I scoffed at the idea of a genie - jinn - as I would have scoffed at the tales of witches and vampires in Europe. Such things were mere fantasy. Still, I put the lamp in my bag to take with me. It would seem to do no harm, and the village headman was adamant that he wanted it gone from his village.

In the chaos that followed, the various skirmishes we fought ending in the Battle of Maiwand, I forgot everything I had heard of India, instead cursing the bad luck that had brought me here. My company made haste to transport me back to Bombay, where I might receive better medical care, but my shoulder wound soon became inflamed and I slipped into enteric fever and spent much of those weeks in delirium. That is the only explanation I can offer for what happened while I was ill, for it made little sense once I came back to myself.

Men dream odd things while in the throes of delirium, and one night, alone in the military hospital ward, I saw a face above me. The face proved to be attached to a man, but one totally otherworldly, with greyish-blue skin and a mischievous look. The man smiled, though I could hardly make it out through the haze of my fever. I could not make his words either, save for one: _wishes._

Later, I told myself it could not possibly be the jinn I was thought to have found. Such things did not exist. It is true I had made a wish that night, but any man, even one so far gone as I was, will cry out a wish to live. That I began to recover some nights later, in time to discover that my foot had brushed against the lamp in my bag that one night, was merely a coincidence. I was quite content to leave India and all its supposed magic behind, in favor of returning to London. Still, I kept the lamp as my only souvenir from my time there.

I thought little of it in the years that followed, for I was much occupied in regaining my health, returning to medical practice and of course, assisting Sherlock Holmes on his cases. My burgeoning writing career and subsequent marriage seemed to prove that I had left my days in India far behind. Until I was, unexpectedly, forced back into the same lonely circumstances I had been in on my return from Army service. The unexpected and violent death of Sherlock Holmes in 1891 was a blow from which I had done little to recover even three years later but the death of my beloved Mary was altogether devastating, and I confess to cursing my ill luck and bad fortune. What had either of them ever done, to leave this Earth so young and full of life? And what was I to do now, without them? The house Mary and I had lived in for those few - too few! - wonderful years seemed to be grieving along with me. I felt her presence everywhere and simply out of the desire for something to do, I resolved that I should sell both the house and my practice and attempt to begin anew, though how I should do that, I had absolutely no idea. I had no family. I had made other friends since my return to London, regained contact with other, older ones, but none as close to me as Holmes had been, for he I had counted more as a brother than a friend. Mary - I sighed, a sharp pain going through me at the mere thought of her. No, such losses could not be replaced or rebuilt. It seemed pointless to even try.

I sat in the attic of our little house, trying to motivate myself to do anything at all, when I noticed a glint of gold among the trunks and papers. I picked it up, only then remembering the odd lamp I had found in that village in India. I ought to get rid of it, for now it served not only as a reminder of that terrible time I had spent in the army, but that I had lost everything I had regained on my return. Still, I hesitated, remembering the odd experience I had had while I was ill, before putting it down hastily. My hand must have brushed against it, for I suddenly had the feeling that I was very cold, before turning around to face an otherworldly figure I had seen only once before, in the throes of fever.

The man before me had changed not at all - greyish-blue skin and the same mischievous smile. Not being delirious on this occasion, I could hear him clearly. "You desire your second wish?"

"I-" I began, unsure what was happening. This was against everything I had been taught, yet perhaps it was due to grief. Yes, it was often said that those struggling with heavy grief were not in their right minds, and might perhaps see things which were not there. That must be it, for I had surely suffered grief the likes of which I could not imagine. "I wish to go on," I said helplessly, for I still, stubbornly, wished to live. I only needed a reason. "There must be a _reason!_ For now, I have none."

The jinn - hallucination, whatever it was - bowed low. "Your wish is my command," he said, before disappearing in a puff of smoke. I stared, blinking at the place he had appeared, before shaking my head. A figment of my imagination, brought on by grief and its corresponding lack of sleep. There was no other explanation. Besides, I had read in stories about jinn that the one thing they could not do was raise the dead and I - well, I could not see much point to continuing, not having lost both my wife and my dearest friend.

The very next week, Sherlock Holmes walked into my consulting rooms as if he had never been gone. A month later, I had sold my practice and was back at Baker Street.

The lamp moved to the attic in Baker Street, for now I certainly could not part with it. I still did not believe it was the home of a real jinn, for surely there were better explanations for what I had experienced - I could certainly have recovered from enteric fever on my own, with the medical care I received on Bombay, and Holmes had not been dead at all those three years, and in fact had already been on his way back to London when I had rediscovered the lamp. Still, I was no longer willing to count out such experiences, and I put the lamp away with care.

Some many years later, after Holmes retired and I had sold my second practice, I found myself once again returning to war, this time in France. I was getting on in years, and this war promised to be larger than any conflict Europe had seen since the wars of Napoleon. I could do no less than my part, yet I knew it was not at all assured that I would return home.

I left Holmes, newly returned from his stint undercover in America, in charge of my possessions. I gave him my papers to keep in his Sussex Downs cottage, should he end up having to tie up my official business for me, and it was then that I found the lamp. I knew Holmes, with his rational mind, would scoff at my experiences with it, yet I handed it over as solemnly as I did my records of our cases and my personal documents. "I found this in India, Holmes," I said, giving him a brief history of what I had experienced with the lamp.

As I predicted, my friend scoffed at it. "You cannot believe that, Watson! Why, you know as well as anyone else that the supernatural simply does not exist!"

I shrugged good-naturedly. "Nevertheless, if the legends are true, I should have one wish left." I pressed the lamp into his hands. "And my wish is that you should have it, old friend."

I expected him to quip that such a thing was useless to him, but perhaps the knowledge of the conflict that was coming and the expectation that we might not meet again stopped him. "Do take care, Watson," was all he said.

"I shall," I said, and resolutely refused to say goodbye in the hope that I should have years before I would have to say it.

* * *

It is a dreadful trial to my nature to be stuck at home while others risk their lives, yet Mycroft is quite correct when he insists that I would be utterly useless in this cataclysm Europe has found itself in. I am not, and have never been, a soldier as Watson is, and my skills most assuredly run in a different area. Mycroft has refrained from saying that I am past my most useful years, though I am sure he was right. Still, I cannot bear to do nothing other than tend my bees and write to Watson as if he is simply in London and not in impossible danger in France.

It was four long years into the war, a war that had long ago begun to seem endless, when I received what everyone dreaded - a telegram. I heard not a word of what the young man at the door said, only took the telegram with shaking hands (I _am _getting old) to feel the most extraordinary relief when it said that Watson had been captured and was not dead.

Relief that immediately turned into worry - and guilt. It is a mark of what this war has done to us that I should feel relieved to think of Watson in a prisoner of war camp, knowing that it could easily have been worse. Immediately, my mind began to race, imagining the disease that must run rampant throughout such a place. Watson was at this time nearly nearly seventy years of age. I was too much of a realist to imagine that this was the last telegram I would receive - or that the next one would carry news of anything other than Watson's death.

Perhaps, I thought, I could arrange a ransom. Mycroft would certainly agree to help, and his carried weight across much of Europe. I would have to gather records, though, of Watson's service and other official proof of identity. I had stored his belongings in the spare bedroom, the one I hoped he would consider his own on his return, and I began tearing through the boxes, searching for anything that might be of help.

I tossed aside things Watson would undoubtedly be cross with me for treating so cavalierly, including that ridiculous lamp he had been carrying around since his days in India. My dear Watson is much less gullible that he had been when we first met, yet he still believes in childish tales of genies in bottles.

"_I understand you control my wishes now_." It was like a voice speaking in my head, and I resolutely did not turn around. It was merely my overactive imagination, thinking about Watson's stories of the lamp I had just thrown unceremoniously across the room.

"_My wishes are yours now. What do you wish?"_

"Nothing," I said peevishly, though why I should be talking to my own imagination out loud, I had no idea. It has clearly been too long since Watson and I have sat by the fire together. Curse this war!

The voice seemed to be laughing now. "_Every man wishes something, Holmes. What do you wish?"_

"For Watson to come home," I answered peevishly, for I truly wished nothing else from life and doubted I would ever again. "Which I am working on achieving if I were only to be left alone in peace!"

"_Done."_

The voice, thankfully, fell silent and I put it to stress and worry over the telegram I had received after four long years of further stress and worry. I found the documents I needed and resolved to bring them to Mycroft straightaway. With any luck, he would be successful in negotiating Watson's release. No supernatural creature would have anything to do with it.

The negotiations dragged on and on and I began to despair of anything coming of them; the Germans being recalcitrant in allowing any exchange of prisoners after the bloodshed of the last years. Weeks passed with no word from either Mycroft or Watson, when at last, two months after I had received the telegram, every soldier put their guns down and armistice was declared. All prisoners on every side were to be returned, and the war was over.

Over. Which is how I now find myself at Kings Cross Station, waiting for a train of repatriated prisoners, ready to take Watson back to Sussex Downs with me.

I am not accustomed to giving credit to the supernatural, and the talks leading to the armistice were already ongoing the day I had come across Watson's lamp. No genie had anything to do with it, I am certain. Still, I do not think I will tell Watson, for he will only consider it further proof that there are, indeed, more things in Heaven and Earth than I have dreamt of.

Perhaps, after all, he is right. I had never dreamt of a war of this magnitude, nor, once it started, had I been able to see its end, much less that Watson and I would see the new decade in together. Yet that has all come to pass, and the important thing about the granting of a wish is that it is, after all, granted. I am certainly not going to question any power that brought Watson and I through this war and back together. I have, at least, grown comfortable enough with not knowing _some _of the reasons for things and simply being grateful for their existence.

* * *

*In what would today be Pakistan - A/N


	7. Chapter 7

Prompt: Nutcracker, from Wordwielder

* * *

I have seen many odd things in my time as Sherlock Holmes's fellow-lodger and chronicler, yet some of the very strangest were within the walls of our Baker Street rooms, and the strangest by far had little to do with Holmes himself. I was reminded of this again rather recently, as I sat at my writing desk attempting to set down the facts of Holmes's latest case.

It was a cold, grey day during which I, for once, had our sitting room to myself. Holmes had claimed he had mysterious errands to attend to and headed off. I knew he likely had nowhere more mysterious to go than the cigar shop, but was pleased enough to have the time to myself. When not engaged on a case, Holmes had little desire to leave our rooms, and so often remained on the settee or at his chemical experiments for days on end. While I ordinarily did not mind, he insisted on commenting on what I might write each time he saw me at my writing desk, and so I much preferred to work on my stories while he was asleep, or better yet, out. Having had such a rare opportunity, I was loathe to waste it, yet I could not seem to organize the case to my satisfaction.

After several fruitless minutes, I found myself distracted by any number of things; a pile of papers that should be moved, a dusty vial on a table, an annoying popping noise that did not seem to stop. I frowned, wondering what such a noise might be. I stuck my head outside, wondering if Mrs. Hudson might be doing some cooking, yet all was quiet downstairs. I retreated back into the sitting room, thinking that I might have imagined the sound in my boredom, only to hear it again. In fact, it seemed to be louder near the door than at the desk. I followed the noise to our sideboard, where it was louder still, but with no further clue as to what it might be.

As I leaned closer to the sideboard, I noticed the sound seemed to be getting louder, and I lowered myself down to the floor. The sound was loudest here, and I immediately realized where it must be coming from. As if to confirm my suspicions, I caught sight of movement out of the corner of my eye, and I smiled, knowing who it must be.

A small, rather round mouse who I knew to be called Dr. David Q. Dawson had suddenly run from a hidden spot inside the wall. As unusual as it might seem to have well-dressed, gentlemanly little mice living in our walls, I had become used to our fellow-lodgers rather quickly, and even Holmes had now accepted their existence into his rational, factual universe. Basil and Dawson could not fail to remind both Holmes and I of ourselves, and were quiet, helpful little neighbors. Today, however, poor Dawson appeared frightened almost out of his wits, and I knelt down next to him. "Whatever is the matter," I asked in some concern. "Has something happened to Basil?"

"No, I am afraid _Basil_ is what's happening to something _else_," Dawson said, wincing as another popping sound came from the hole in the wall. "We came across some chestnuts, you see, only they were still shelled - and rather large!"

"Ah," I said, before comprehending. Basil was a bit too much like Holmes for me not to realize what must be happening. "Dawson, he isn't _shooting _at them, is he?"

"Dawson, I shall get these nuts cracked yet!" a voice called triumphantly from the wall, before Basil himself emerged, in his dressing gown and carrying a still-smoking gun. It appeared as if both of the consulting detectives who lived at 221b Baker Street were altogether too cavalier with firearms for their respective fellow-lodgers.

"Basil, there must be a better way of cracking chestnuts open," Dawson attempted to argue, while I simply smiled.

"Good afternoon, Basil. I must say, I've never seen a gun sized for a mouse before."

"Do you like it?" Basil asked. "Dawson here will tell you I never miss." I glanced at Dawson to ascertain the truth of this, and he shook his head. I laughed and held out my hand to examine the weapon. The metalwork was extraordinary, especially on such a tiny item, and I handed it back to Basil, who took it and blew some imaginary smoke from it. "Dawson and I were about to enjoy some chestnuts, Doctor, would you like some?"

"Basil!" Dawson cried. "There will be nothing left if you insist on shooting them to bits! There'll be nothing left of our furniture either."

I could not help but laugh at Basil's contrite expression - Holmes, at least, limited his indoor firearms practice to the walls. Still, I found myself sympathetic. If they had found chestnuts meant for humans, they were undoubtedly too large for two small mice to crack open. Imagine always living in a world where everything is so much larger than oneself. Though I did wonder… "Did you happen to find those chestnuts in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen?" I asked.

"Oh, no!" Dawson said. "No, they were a gift from a client."

"Who undoubtedly found them in _her_ human's kitchen," Basil said. "Though it will not matter in the _slightest_ if I cannot crack them!"

I laughed. "Bring your chestnuts out here, Basil, and I will crack them for you."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor," Dawson said, while Basil ran inside and returned a few minutes later, pushing a bag bulging with chestnuts before him. "You've saved our sitting room, at least!"

I took the bag and took a small metal bust (a rather hideous one of an old man with a bulging nose; I should have to ask Holmes where he had acquired such an odd item), bringing it down on a few of the chestnuts so they broke open. I took a few pieces for myself and handed the smaller ones to Basil and Dawson, who had scrambled up the arm of the chair to sit next to me.

"Thank you, Doctor," Basil said, as we enjoyed our unexpected treat. "It is rather nice to sit and relax like this, is it not, Dawson?"

From Dawson's expression, he found this a somewhat incredulous statement, though it was one I heartily agreed with. There is something wonderful about a roaring fire, some good food and good friends to share it with, especially on such a gloomy day. I picked up the bust to crack some more of the nuts, which apparently prevented me from hearing the door open, for the next thing I knew, Holmes had entered the room. "Well, Watson, I certainly never expected to find you serving as a nutcracker for mice!" he said.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" Dawson said, leaping to his feet; the poor fellow always seemed rather in awe of my friend. "Dr. Watson was good enough to assist us in having a small treat."

"Would you care to join us?" I asked, offering Holmes a handful of chestnuts.

"You know I dislike chestnuts, Watson," Holmes said. "However, I can provide an excellent sherry to go with it. I am sure I can borrow a thimble or two from Mrs. Hudson so our guests can join us." He handed me a newly purchased bottle of sherry, showing where he had spent his time while he was out, and disappeared back through the door. I could hear him on his way downstairs in search of thimbles.

"An excellent idea!" Basil said, though I was certain that any borrowing Holmes did from Mrs. Hudson's sewing supplies would be without her knowledge. I poured myself the first glass, making a note to myself to remember to bring her back her thimbles, for Holmes certainly would not. Our estimable landlady would not likely mind, however, especially if she knew the purpose for which we intended them. She had a true soft spot for Basil and Dawson. In fact, I sometimes wondered if she preferred them to us!


	8. Chapter 8

Prompt: Lost in a snowstorm, from cjnwriter

A/N: This is probably the most unusual Holmes fic I've ever written and I'm not at all sure that it even works, but the prompt wouldn't BUDGE until I wrote it this way. So, the relevant information is that this is set at a monastery in Tibet during the Hiatus. _Khenpo_ is the word for the abbot of a Tibetan monastery, _getsul_ is the word for a novice.

* * *

It was a cold, dark night, the snow whirling and swirling around to make it even harder to see when the _khenpo_ sent sent me to close the gate. Youngest of the monks here, aside from the boys who were sent to us for schooling, I was always certain to draw the hardest and least-desirable jobs. We normally did not lock the gates, for we had few local villages around, and never any other visitors. On a night like this, even the most hardy of the faithful would remain by their fires. Our evening prayers would be even more quiet and peaceful than usual tonight with none of the villagers to join us, despite the storm raging outside. I pushed my way through the wind and the snow which pelted my face to reach the gate, looking forward to the warmth of the temple.

I happened to glance up when I reached the great doors and squinted, thinking I had seen something in the distance, then scoffed at myself. I could not have seen anything. No one could see anything in weather like this, and if I did not close the gate, I would be late for evening prayers. Yet I thought I saw it again, a glint of light, and instead of closing the gates, I opened them, in time for a man to collapse at my feet.

"Are you alright?" I asked. I could not imagine what would bring anyone out in a storm like this. The man in front of me did not move other than to sit up, breathing heavily. When he spoke, it was in a language I did not understand. I closed the gates behind him, thinking how fortunate he was to have arrived at the exact moment I had been here to see him. "Wait here," I said, gesturing with my hands for him to stay. I disliked leaving him in the cold, but it seemed worse to me to try to force him to walk when he seemed so tired. How long had he been out there? The visitor seemed to understand, nodding and resting against the closed gate. I ran inside, crying for the _khenpo_.

"What is it, _getsul_," our _khenpo_ asked, calm and serene as always.

"There is," I said, gasping for breath with the exertion of running in the storm, "A man. By the gate. He collapsed."

Mercifully, he did not ask me any more questions, merely followed me to where our mysterious visitor lay. "Traveller, come inside. Be welcome here," the _khenpo _asked.

Perhaps the visitor _did _understand some Tibetan, for he did not look confused. He allowed us to take his weight between us and carry him inside the temple, where we sent one of the students for some food. "Who are you?" the _khenpo _asked.

"Sigerson," the man answered, then some words I did not understand, "Sigerson."

"Sig-er-son," I repeated. The name felt strange, though not as strange as our visitor looked. His skin was paler than milk, and I realized our visitor was from far, far away. We had heard, from our brothers in less rural monasteries, of the men from Europe who were coming to our neighbors China and India. But only a very few had reached our mountains, and none had come to us. He was, furthermore, thinner than I had seen anyone who was not from a starving village, yet taller than any of us when he stood. He wore clothes like ours, however, made for a mountain winter, so he must have been in our country for some time. I was fascinated. We saw so little of the outside world, and none from so far.

"Where do you come from?" we asked.

The question sent our visitor - Sigerson - into spasms of fear. He looked at us wide-eyed and startled like a deer who was being hunted. "I-I must go," he said, beginning to put his coat back on. I was, it seemed, less startled to hear him speak Tibetan than my _khenpo_, whose eyes widened.

"You speak our language," he said.

"He has been in Tibet for some time," I said. "To some so far, and he wears Tibetan clothes."

"Only a little," Sigerson said, though apparently enough to understand what I had said, because I saw him give me a look of what may have been approval. His eyes were a color I had never seen before, grey, like a stormy sky and fiercely intelligent, as if he were a predator himself. "I was lost in the snowstorm. I am trying to go to Lhasa."

I laughed. "You are very lost, then. Lhasa is far to the south." I had never been to our capital, never known anyone who had, other than the _khenpo_, who had gone once to hear a great teacher from India speak. It was so far it might as well have been whatever faraway country Sigerson came from.

Sigerson looked frustrated then, and the _khenpo_ gave me an admonishing look before turning back to our visitor. "You are welcome here. Have some food, rest." He gestured to the platter of food the student had brought. Sigerson still looked frightened, and the _khenpo _added, "Please, just for tonight. You may leave tomorrow if you wish."

Sigerson looked at us, seeming to realize that we were sincere. "Let no one in," he said. "After me." He was very forceful, so that even the _khenpo_ agreed to do his bidding. In his own monastery! But we are not rulers, instead, we exist to serve. I must remember that.

Our visitor took off his coat again and fell upon the food as if he had not eaten in days. Perhaps he had not, I thought. He was so thin. I turned my attention to his garments, intending to hang them to dry for the night. In his coat I found a few keepsakes. A small book, covered in markings that made no sense to me. I doubt they would have made sense had I been able to read his language, because they were scrawled all over the pages in no logical sequence - no lines, columns, not even a spiral. I wondered at his ability to decipher it, even if it was his own work. A few rolls of paper - I recognized Indian rupees, and conjectured that the rest must be money from other countries. Another few pieces of paper with writing on them, though these seemed to be printed as some of our more recent texts were. Sigerson had folded them up and I laid them down with care, for they must be precious to him if he had carried them so far. Next to them, I found a picture. Its image was so clear, despite the lack of color, that I remembered what a visiting teacher who had come from Nepal had told me of the new technology called photographs. A true image of oneself, captured! I had never seen one before and I studied it closely. One of the men in the photograph was clearly Sigerson himself, though he appeared younger and not quite so thin. Healthier. I wondered again what it was that had driven him from his home to be lost in a snowstorm in Tibet. The other man in the photograph was shorter, heavier, with a thick mustache. Where was that man now? Did he know where Sigerson was? I found no other photographs, and determined that whoever the other man was, he must have been important for them to take a photograph together. Even more so if his photograph was one of the few items Sigerson carried across the world with him.

I noticed our visitor watching me, and my curiosity overcame me. I showed him the picture with a questioning glance, then immediately wished I had not. A look of sadness crossed his face before he cleared his throat and said only, "Friend. Watson."

Watson. What an odd name. I put the photograph aside, laying it carefully on top of the book and nodding at Sigerson so he might know where it was. He nodded at me to show he understood. Strange, how little one needs language after all!

The next item I took out was heavy and made of metal. I began to examine it when Sigerson suddenly leaped from his spot. "No," he said. "Not for you. It is dangerous."

A weapon. A gun, which I had heard of but never seen. I froze, not in fear, but because weapons are forbidden in the temple. We are men of peace, in a house of peace.

"Not for you," Sigerson said again, and I understood in a flash what he meant. He was not trying to keep it from us, but saying its use was not meant for us. He had something - or someone - else in mind for this weapon, and we were in no danger from it.

He placed the gun under his pillow and from the look in his eye, I thought whoever the weapon was meant for would not last very much longer. I hastily retreated, thinking I would be glad to see Sigerson gone and to return to our peaceful life.

The snowstorm had stopped the following morning, and we sent Sigerson away early, before morning prayers, with a small sack of food and directions to the nearest town. From there, he could get transport to Lhasa. "Let no one in," he said again. "Someone after me."

I nodded solemnly, though one of the brothers next to me scoffed. "We cannot close the temple just because he says so! Everyone has the right to come here."

"We don't have to close the temple to everyone," I said impatiently. "Whoever is after him will obviously be another European. That is who we must close the temple to, not local worshipers." I felt a flash of satisfaction when my brother fell silent, his face flushed in embarrassment, though I should not feel such pride in myself. It had simply seemed so obvious. I saw Sigerson smile at me, somewhat mischievously, and I realized he could understand our language better than he could speak it, for he must have understood our exchange. I blushed and stepped backward. I must try harder.

The day passed quietly after Sigerson left until another figure appeared on top of the hill outside. Now that the snow had stopped and the sky was clear, it was easy to see even from a distance that this visitor was no local. He was dressed oddly and called out in a strange language. I turned to the students next to me. "Close the gate," I said. I felt sure this man was who Sigerson had warned us of.

"Yes, sir," the students said, and they hurried off to do my bidding. I climbed the tower to watch as the new figure reached the gate, calling in his strange language. He obviously spoke none of our language, unlike Sigerson, and even from my high vantage point, I did not like what I saw. Sigerson had been quiet and grateful for any help we gave him. He had been concerned for us when he thought he might bring danger upon us. This man yelled and jumped up and down in anger when we refused him entry, even going so far as to punch and hit the pillars of the gate. I had heard the Europeans were heathens, with no respect for tradition or beliefs, and had I only met Sigerson I would not have believed it. He was right to warn us against his pursuer, who finally left when he realized we would not let him in. I remember Sigerson's gun and thought that this was the man he meant it for. The thought made me uncomfortable. To take a life is grievous. Yet what would this man have done to us if we had allowed him entry? Sigerson had seemed sure he would bring us harm.

I often think of Sigerson now, wondering if he made it to Lhasa or ever returned to his home. I wonder if he saw his friend Watson again and if he told him about us. Or if the man chasing him did catch him in the end, and our help was for nothing.

Not nothing, I reminded myself. Even if he was caught in the end, we gave a lonely traveler shelter from a storm and food for the night. A night of companionship in a strange country is no small thing. It is the small things, in fact, which are often the most consequential of all.

* * *

A/N: In case you were wondering, the printed page the novice found is the copy of _The Final Problem_ that Holmes has been carrying around. And of course, the visitor they don't let in is Colonel Moran.


	9. Chapter 9

Prompt: Volleyball, from V Tsuion

A/N: In the course of writing this, I discovered that beach volleyball was first played in 1915 in Hawaii and spread really quickly after that, becoming popular on beaches all over the world, which makes it the perfect time to set a Holmes retirement fic :)

* * *

Many of my more vocal readers expressed surprise at the news of Sherlock Holmes's early retirement, wondering why he would take himself to the small, quiet area of Sussex Downs where there was seemingly little that would be of interest to him. At first, I myself had shared their confusion, for my friend was, even at the end of his career, active and energetic and his mind as restless as ever. I thought that he would find himself growing bored in the small cottage he had purchased, even with his newfound interest in beekeeping to occupy him.

Still, as the years went on, I came to realize that retirement had done my friend nothing but good. Freed from the dangers and constant demand upon his time of detective work, Holmes threw himself into his other hobbies. He frequently sent me not only honey from his thriving hives, but more monographs than he had written before, on such varied subjects as medieval music, ancient language, newly discovered chemical compounds, and of course beekeeping (though he did still occasionally send me his thoughts on the crimes of the day, and from what I could tell, remained in practice with both his gun and his martial prowess). On those few occasions I was able to visit, he seemed much calmer and healthier, and I was certain that all that remained was for me to join him, as I always knew I would as soon as I was financially able.

Alas, the events of the world did not allow us to do so until many years after we had initially planned, as first Holmes, and then I, went abroad to do our parts for the war effort. For many years it seemed as if, at least, my adventurous life were to end on a muddy field in France, but it was not to be so. None seemed so relieved at the war's end than Holmes, who invited me immediately to take the bedroom at his Sussex Down cottage that had been empty these long years of the war. I confess I was more than pleased to do so. I had seen enough of war and death and longed for nothing else but a quiet, peaceful retirement with my dearest friend.

The years passed pleasantly enough. I recovered from the war, slowly, but well enough to ensure that we should have many more years, and in retirement, some of our bad habits came to the fore. Holmes and I were, when left to our own devices, extraordinarily lazy and often did not rise until nearly midday. Without Mrs. Hudson to admonish us, the cottage became messier than our rooms at 221b Baker Street ever were, yet there was no reason to do otherwise. We spent our days lazily, tending Holmes's beehives (for he insisted on teaching me enough to assist him), taking long walks through the countryside and spending the evenings reading while Holmes played the violin or simply sitting by the fire with a glass of sherry. The world may have moved forward, yet in many ways in the privacy of our cottage, it still seemed to be 1895.

Summer comes late to England, and we always took advantage of the warm weather to walk along the beach. Holmes enjoyed hunting for fossils and I found a great sense of peace in viewing the rhythm of the waves, which had been crashing on the shore long before we had lived and would continue to do so long after we were gone. The area was so sparsely populated we were often the only people on the beach, as it was not popular with summer travellers.

Yet as the 1920s went on, we saw more and more evidence of the world changing. Holmes and I made our way down to the beach one summer morning, as we did every year, only to find a group of young people already there, dressed in the new, much less modest style of bathing outfit. Holmes sniffed derisively at the sight of anyone disturbing the peace of the beach, but I smiled indulgently. I had been an active youth myself in my time, not caring what my elders thought of me, and I doubted the young people of today were any different. I am sure Holmes was much more the type to have shut himself up in his room and conduct chemical experiments than engage in any popular form of youthful activity. Though he has never much cared what anyone thought of him.

"Come, Watson," Holmes said, taking my arm. "The beach is much quieter down that way."

I turned to follow him when the group of young people began to set up a net. I stopped to watch, wondering what purpose a net would have on a beach. Surely it was not a conducive place to play tennis. But they raised the net higher than a tennis net and took out a larger ball, beginning to hit it over the net to each other. "What the devil are they doing?" I asked.

"Oh, that is a new sport. I believe it is called volleyball," Holmes said.

I stared at him in some amazement, for he had never cultivated knowledge of anything unless he deemed it useful. "How do you know that?"

"It was very popular in Chicago," Holmes answered. "It was invented in America, I believe, some fifteen years before my assignment there." I confess I often forgot that Holmes had spent time in America, for by mutual agreement we rarely spoke of the war. My friend continued, "I never played, myself, but many of the people I met there enjoyed it. Though that version was played indoors."

I smiled. "Well, Chicago is not known for its beaches or its summer weather," I said. It seemed that so much of what was new came from America now, and I contemplated that perhaps the sun had indeed begun to set, not only on Holmes and I, but on the famed British empire.

"You have never spent a summer in Chicago, Watson," Holmes said. He watched the volleyball players for a moment. "It really seems dreadfully inconvenient to play a sport like this on a beach." As if proving his point, one of the players lunged for the ball, lost his footing in the sand, and fell heavily to the ground. He rose a moment later, grinning and spitting out sand, looking none the worse for wear.

"Well, perhaps a sport played on a beach is not the most sensible one to play in England," I conceded. "Still, in my younger days, I might have attempted to play."

"You, Watson?" Holmes asked incredulously.

"It looks like tremendous fun," I said.

Holmes clearly did not agree. "I have never seen the purpose of sport for its own sake. Those I took part in at least cultivated a skill."

I could not deny that Holmes's sporting expertise had given him an advantage in his career; in his heyday, I had known of no better boxer in his weight class and he could have won a professional fencing competition had he chose. Still, I doubted any young person today would see much point in learning to fight with commonplace objects such as walking sticks or kitchenware. "You never went in for team sports," I remarked. "I distinctly recall you saying you knew nothing of rugby for that reason."

"I never had much in common with the sort that played rugby," Holmes said.

"_I _played rugby, Holmes."

"Present company excepted, of course," Holmes said. "No, I much preferred a sport I could practice on my own."

And in all areas whether they were meant for sporting practice or not, I thought to myself, remembering the patriotic V.R. that had decorated the walls of our Baker Street rooms. I had arrived at the Sussex Downs cottage to find a corresponding E.R and G.R. next to each other in the sitting room. Holmes was at least still determined to keep up with his marksmanship. "Well, I daresay that even twenty years ago, you and I could have won a game of this volleyball," I said. "The teams are of two players each, you see, Holmes?"

"You are right, Watson," Holmes said. "Perhaps I could have seen fit to take part in such a team as that." He laughed in that peculiar silent way he had.

I smiled. "An opposing volleyball team could not pose any more threat to us than a gang of violent criminals."

"And we have faced our share of those," Holmes said. "Anyway, come, Watson. The youth of today do not have any interest in two old relics such as ourselves watching their game."

I bristled, for I did not consider myself a relic yet, even at over seventy years of age, but then I noticed that Holmes and I were both dressed in suits like proper gentlemen. Hardly appropriate beachwear in these new, more relaxed 1920s. Perhaps he was right. "Lead on, Holmes," I said. "Perhaps you will find another one of those lizard fossils you were so excited about last week."

"It was a pterodactyl, Watson, not a lizard," Holmes said, practically springing ahead in his excitement. Relic, indeed! He had not changed at all in the nearly fifty years I had known him. It was the world which had changed around us but, I hoped, not yet left us behind.


	10. Chapter 10

Prompt: Photograph, from Hades Lord of the Dead

* * *

"Remind me, Watson, why I have agreed to this."

I sighed heavily as we walked to a well-known photography studio on the Strand, where after much cajoling, I had persuaded Sherlock Holmes to submit to a photography session. In those heady days after _A Study in Scarlet_, I had suddenly found myself the author of the most popular serialized novel in London, a feat that put me in the same category as such vaunted writers as Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Robert Louis Stevenson and even Thackeray. I was unaccustomed to such fame, but my friend abhorred it with the whole of his soul, proclaiming on several occasions that he would from then on be known as the main character in "florid, romantically exaggerated fictions," instead of a true master of deductive reasoning. I had countered this by saying that not only had my novel brought in a great many new clients, every one of them declared that Holmes was undoubtedly the master of his specific brand of science.

It was, perhaps, the worst argument we had yet had, and it only ended when Holmes conceded that I had brought a great deal of business his way and I agreed not to publish any more stories until I had either his permission or his death certificate in hand. Holmes had always had a touch of a dramatic streak, but he was rarely so morbid, and I confess the thought that his life would be cut short by an assailant had occurred to me before, and the very idea filled me with such dread that I refused to consider it for any length of time.

In any event, there was still the matter of the constant attention we were receiving for my little novel. My publishers assured me they had rarely seen such interest in any story they had yet published, and because I had, somewhat foolishly, included our address, I knew they were correct. Holmes and I had found our post increased tenfold since _Beeton's Christmas Annual _had published, most of which was ardent expressions of admiration from those who had read and enjoyed the story, along with constant requests for our presence at some society event or another. In an effort to appease the masses, my publishes had suggested a small profile of my life as the author, to be published in a future issue along with a photograph of Holmes and myself. It had taken much convincing and many assurances that this would be the only such occasion we would have to do anything of the sort before Holmes agreed.

We arrived at the photographer's studio where a thin, young man with light brown hair and mustache greeted us. I could tell from the discoloration on his nails and his fingers that he was the photographer, for it was clear he worked with chemicals. Holmes's fingers often bore the same markings. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said. "Herbert Prussels, at your service."

"Good afternoon," I said. "I am Dr. Watson and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes!" Young Prussels cried. "I so enjoyed _A Study in Scarlet_, sir. I barely slept until I had finished it!"

Holmes smiled thinly, though poor Prussels had no way to know how much my friend detested such displays, which had become common since the story had been published. "Good afternoon. I see you are the photographer, and come from Clapham, were once a member of a tennis club before falling on hard times and now do a great deal of painting in addition to photography.."

Mr. Prussels stared at my friend in amazement. "You are exactly right, Mr. Holmes! It is just like in your story, Doctor! However did you know all that?"

Holmes always did enjoy showing off, and Prussels' honest reaction brought a flush of please to my friend's cheeks. "Why, it is simplicity itself. The discoloration around your nails shows that you work as a photographer with a photographer's chemicals - at least it would if I were not already standing in your photography studio. Likewise, you have a callus on your palm that is unique to those who hold a tennis racquet frequently, though yours has softened in recent years, which shows that you used to play a great deal of tennis and now no longer do. You have in your pocket a receipt from a cigar shop in West Clapham, but the mud you tracked into the studio on your shoes this morning is of a distinct variety found only in Clapham. As for the last, those same shoes sport a large number of paint drops in varying colors, showing that photographer is not your only occupation."

Prussels was still staring at Holmes before he burst out laughing. "Well, you have got it exactly. The only thing is that this is not my photography studio - it is my brother's. You are right that I was once better off than I am now. I had a position as a tutor before I left to devote myself to my painting, for I am a painter like you said, Mr. Holmes. I work here while I attempt to build up my reputation well enough to get my work into the Royal Academy."

At that moment, the door burst open and the stout figure of the editor of _Beeton's Christmas Annual_, Mr. Ward, walked in. "Dr. Watson, I thought I would come and make certain the final product is one we approve of," he said.

"Of course," I said, though I suspected he had come so he might meet Holmes, who had steadfastly refused any introduction to my publishers. "This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"So you're the one who has sold us more magazines than any other story we've run," Ward said in his bombastic way.

"Quite," Holmes said. "I see you have recently acquired a cat."

I searched for a way I might discreetly step on his feet to stop him, for now I was certain he was showing off. How the devil he could possibly know whether the man had just acquired a cat? But Mr. Ward looked at my friend in astonishment before shaking his head. "You know, Mr. Holmes, part of me thought Watson here was making it all up. But you have almost a sixth sense for that sort of thing. I did just buy a cat for my little girl. A beautiful, white creature that hates the very sight of me."

"I thought so," Holmes said, though I could tell by the glint in his eye that he thought very little of Mr. Ward. "The white hairs clinging to your trouser leg are small and soft enough that they could only belong to a kitten, a Persian, if I am not mistaken, and a kitten must, by definition, be newly acquired."

"Come, Holmes, Mr. Prussels is nearly ready," I said hurriedly, in an effort to ensure that the session remained mostly friendly and entirely painless. Holmes followed me into the studio, where I looked around with interest. I had had my photograph taken before, though not for many years, and the technology had improved greatly since then. Prussels led us into the studio, where an armchair was set up by a desk, to emulate a sitting room setting. The camera, as bulky as I remember, sat at one side.

"Perhaps you should sit, Mr. Holmes, as you are the taller," Prussels said.

"I prefer to stand," Holmes said imperiously. I sent him a grateful look. Far from being obstinate merely for its own sake, he knew well how my leg injury pained me when forced to stand still for long periods, and while fifteen minutes might not seem long, it was when one was forced to stand still for its entirety. Though I am certain he enjoyed being obstinate as well, for he could be as stubborn as a child when faced with something he did not wish to do. I sat on the chair and Holmes stood to one side of it, resting an arm above my head on top of the chair.

"Excellent," Prussels said. "Hold there and remain still until I tell you otherwise." He hurried off behind his camera and set off the flash. I resisted the urge to look around at Holmes; the photograph would be ruined if either of us moved and I instead stared straight ahead. I could only imagine how such forced stillness went against my friend's active nature; perhaps that was why I had never seen any other photograph of him and why I had such difficulty convincing him to sit for this one.

At last, Prussels indicated that we might get up. Holmes sighed with relief and stretched out his hands and we went out to the waiting area. "Excellent," Mr. Ward said. "We've had more interest in you than in anything else we've published. Now your readers will get to see what you both really look like."

"Indeed. Perhaps you can have your illustrator work from the photograph this time to achieve a better result," Holmes said, and I looked at him disapprovingly. The poor illustrator had done his best with only my descriptions to go on. He had, at least, been able to work from life for my images.

"Perhaps, perhaps," Mr. Ward said before turning to me. "We must set up a time for you to come down to the offices and be interviewed for the accompanying piece about you."

"Yes, I shall send you some possible dates as soon as I can look at my schedule," I said. I turned around to look for Holmes and found him, to my astonishment, at the desk in earnest conversation with Mr. Prussels. "Holmes, whatever are you doing?" I asked.

"Purchasing a copy of that photograph," he answered. At my surprised look he said, "Well, Watson, I should not like it if I had no record of the time I was the most famous man in London."

I have little in the ways of observational skills, but it takes almost none at all to observe that Holmes carried his copy of that photograph with him for all the years I knew him afterward, for I saw it often. He has always denied any such sentiment on his part, but I have always believed in the old adage that actions speak louder than words.

* * *

A/N: If you remember my Dec 8 response, where Holmes has a photograph of himself and Watson when he reaches the Tibetan monastery, yes this is that photograph.


	11. Chapter 11

Prompt: On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me... from Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: It occurred to me that in all the years I've been in this fandom I've never written a 221b (and now I see why, this was HARD). Most definitely crack :)

* * *

"Even criminals take the time for Christmas, Watson," Holmes said in a long-suffering tone, as if disappointed the crime rate decreased around Christmas.

I was spared answering by Mrs. Hudson entering our sitting room. "Mr. Holmes, I've a problem I cannot make heads nor tails of."

Holmes leapt out of his chair and we followed Mrs. Hudson outside to her prized pear tree. "Pray tell me, Mr. Holmes, how that got there."

We examined the branches of the tree. I could see nothing, but Holmes reached up and brought down a small, fat bird. "Most unusual," he said. "Partridges nest on the ground. It must have been placed here

"It is a good joke," I said, laughing. "We must look out for two turtledoves tomorrow." Mrs. Hudson smiled, catching on, though Holmes merely looked confused. "Holmes, you cannot tell me you've never heard of The Twelve Days of Christmas!" I said.

"I have no room in my brain-attic for such trivialities," he said imperiously, before asking, "What do a partridge and a pear tree have to do with Christmas anyway?"

"Well, it's what one's true love gives on the first day of Christmas," I said. "Then on the second, two turtledoves, and so on."

"Based on that description," Holmes said, "I can only conclude that Mrs. Hudson has acquired a beau!"


	12. Chapter 12

Prompt: An Unpredictable solution to an ordinary problem, from Winter Winks 221

A/N: I daresay losing correspondence is an ordinary problem...

* * *

In relaying stories of the years I spent living with Sherlock Holmes, readers often asked me how it was I lived with someone who frequently filled our rooms with foul-smelling chemicals and was not averse to shooting his gun indoors. I usually responded that everyone must become accustomed to the habits of anyone they seek to share living space with, whether that person is a husband or wife, a sibling, or a fellow-lodger. Yet it is true that most people were not Sherlock Holmes, who was without a doubt the untidiest man who ever rented rooms in London. This feature of my friend's unique personality threatened to drive me to distraction in the early days, for while I was not a paragon of organization myself, I was only prone to misplace a piece of paper here or there, or forget where I had left the pen I was using. Holmes, however, was likely to leave all his papers in great clumps wherever he happened to have finished with them, only to tear them apart again when he needed one article or another, leaving papers strewn across the floor behind him. More than once he called me away from whatever else I was engaged in to search for some item or another, and we would spend the afternoon crawling upon the floor until he found whatever it was he was searching for. He once had to delay the return of a wealthy client's prize gold ring because he had misplaced it in our sitting room; I eventually found it at the bottom of an empty bottle of cognac on our sideboard.

Nonetheless, I consider myself easy-going, and when it became clear that Holmes was not going to change his ways to become neat, I simply learned to live around the clutter that inevitably built up around him. I never put my hand into a drawer without first checking to see what was inside it, or sat on a chair without first determining that he had not inadvertently left a knife or his Stradivarius on it. I learned to broaden my mind as to where items might be located, considering it normal to look for cigars in the coal-scuttle and tobacco in the toe of a lone Persian slipper. I no longer became surprised on finding criminal relics appearing in odd places, such as our butter dish. One may, I discovered, become accustomed to anything.

There was, however, the matter of Holmes himself. While absolutely refusing to do anything toward neatening our shared living space, he despised when his lack of ability to find something interrupted what he planned to do. He may have been the greatest detective of his or any age, capable of unraveling problems that caused the hardiest professionals to give up and of finding any lost or stolen item for a client, but he was singularly incapable of finding anything in his own sitting room. There were months when I assisted him in finding his own misplaced items more than I did on cases he was hired to solve. It seemed to me a peculiar attribute in a detective, yet such was the entire effect of his personality that I began to view his untidiness as one of the powers that made him such a great detective in the first place.

I was seated by the fire one cold day in February, reading the day's news and warming my feet by the fire when Holmes burst out of his bedroom. "Where the devil did I put it?" he muttered to himself, opening drawers in our sideboard before moving to his chemistry table.

"What is it you are searching for, Holmes?" I asked lazily. I had, that day, found no fewer than four newspaper clippings he had meant to put in his index and several bullets he had intended to test for some unknown substance at St. Bart's. I had placed them all by his place at our shared table, knowing that he would eventually find them. If it were one of these he was searching for, I might save him considerable time.

"I have received a letter from Professor Martin, at Harvard, who wonders why I have not written back about the chemical formula he sent me the previous month," Holmes answered, now searching through the writing desk. "I recall receiving a letter, but I cannot for my life remember where I put it!"

Holmes's correspondence was large and varied; he received no fewer than twenty letters a week from all over the world, on every subject imaginable. He wrote several notable chemists about their discoveries, counted most major music historians and conductors among his correspondents, maintained occasional ties with political figures throughout Europe, and that is without counting the number of police departments and private clients who sought his help through the post. I am doubtless forgetting a few, for I rarely saw my own post until Holmes determined it had not been tampered with and as such I saw his even more rarely. Knowing my friend's habits, I thought it not unlikely that a letter from a month before was long gone from our sitting room. Mrs. Hudson may have thought it had been answered, especially if Holmes had left it crumpled in a ball under the settee, as he was wont to when he had finished reading a letter. I got up from my chair and looked under the settee with the idea that it might still be there. I found several orders for tobacco and one for chemicals that Holmes had undoubtedly forgotten about, but not a single letter.

"Where had you seen it last?" I asked.

"Oh, I do not know, perhaps by the chemistry table," Holmes said, now pulling the books that made up his index off the shelf and shaking them. A few errant newspaper clippings fell out, but again no letter. Holmes left the newspaper clippings on the floor and began looking behind the pictures on our fireplace mantle.

Used as I was to my friend's methods, I was quite certain that the one place a letter about chemistry would _not _be was by the chemistry table. Eliminating that as impossible, I sought to use Holmes's own methods, searching for anything out of the ordinary as a place to start the search. Holmes, however, was in a flurry of activity, going from one side of the room to the other in an effort to find his lost letter. "Watson, this is a very bad business," he said. "Martin was very upset in his letter, saying it was urgent that I give him my opinion, for he has a position with a considerable amount of funding dependent on it."

"Holmes, it is a sad day when the world's greatest detective cannot find a lost letter in his own sitting room," I said, getting up with some difficulty from next to the air vents, which were lacking in letters, though there were some chemical vials that I wisely decided not to touch.

Holmes ignored me, instead searching through the pockets of a coat he had found by the door. "Aha!" he cried, bringing forth a crumpled piece of paper that must be the letter in question. "See, Watson, I told you I would find it. It is a simple matter of eliminating all the places the letter is not. I must have left it in the pocket of my coat."

A coat which he seemed not to have worn since, since the garment was buried on the coat hook under several other coats. "Holmes, you really must do something about your correspondence," I said. "What if you next misplace a letter having to do with a case, and the result is that a murderer goes free or an innocent man remains in prison?"

"Come, Watson, can you say you have never misplaced a letter?"

"No," I answered. "I doubt there are any of us who can say that." I looked around at our sitting room, which looked as if a small storm had made its way through. I had never had to cause such damage to my living space to find any letter I had misplaced either, though I did not need to say so. I simply gestured towards the mess.

"Ah. Yes," Holmes said, looking rather contrite. "I expect Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased with us."

"So you see why I say you should find a place for your letters to stay," I said.

"Perhaps you are right, Watson," Holmes said peevishly. I brushed it off; he was often annoyed when others were right and he was wrong, despite his claims of being only a brain with no attendant emotions. He had some vanity where his intellect and powers of deduction were concerned, and as he was usually correct, I did not mind. "But where the devil do you suggest I put them?"

I surveyed our sitting room, forced to concede that he was right. Even without the extra clutter created by our search, the room was usually full of newspapers, books, sheets of music, writing notebooks, ledgers and all manner of criminal and chemical accoutrements. "Well, most people leave their letters on a desk," I suggested, looking at our writing desk.

"I never write anyone at that desk," Holmes said. "I would certainly never look there for my letters."

"No," I agreed, for it was true Holmes only wrote his monographs there, choosing instead to write his letters, more often than not, standing by the mantle. "Perhaps a small table next to you chair?" I said.

"Watson, you know as well as I do that any such table would immediately be filled with plates, glasses, violin bows and all manner of trinkets."

Once again, my friend was right, and I frowned. There simply had to be a place he could have all his post in one place so he would not lose it! But I could not come up with any place that was not already used to store something.

While I was thinking, Holmes gathered up the errant letter and any other pieces of correspondence he could find and stuck the whole pile into the mantle with a jackknife. "Holmes!" I cried. "That is hardly what I meant!"

"Why not?" Holmes asked. "We may simply add any letter that does not need to be answered immediately to the pile. I shall certainly never lose them, and they shall not even fall on the floor!"

I gaped at the knife in our mantle for several seconds, unable to speak. "Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would not be pleased to find her fireplace ruined by a knife."

"Oh, come, Watson, it is hardly a bullethole, and I have already caused several of those," Holmes said, and I could not argue the point. Mrs. Hudson had been most upset on first seeing the V.R. that now adorned our sitting room wall, though of late she had seemed to be used to it.

"Well, it does solve the problem," I said helplessly, unable to come up with any other reason why Holmes should _not _keep his post affixed to the mantle with a jackknife, other than that he was certainly the only person in all of England to do so.

"Excellent," Holmes said. "Pass me the Persian slipper, Watson. I shall answer Martin straightaway, and I shall need at least two pipes to do so."


	13. Chapter 13

Prompt: Noel, from Wordwielder

* * *

It is one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that relaxation is often impossible, to say nothing of sleep. While on a case I am used to taking no rest until I have found the solution. Not because, as Scotland Yard believes, I am incapable of stopping until the case is closed, but because my mind will simply turn over all the available facts and possible theories until I have solved it, making any rest impossible.

Perhaps that _does_ mean I am incapable of stopping until the case is closed, but I shall certainly never give Lestrade the satisfaction of knowing that. It is to my advantage that all believe me to be a reasoning and deduction machine rather than a man. It would, in fact, be rather to my advantage if I were in reality a reasoning and deduction machine, for the constant interruptions to my work by the necessities of daily life are a trial. I should much prefer to forgo all such things as eating and sleeping in favor of the work, and have trained myself to do so as far as is humanly possible. Watson will give me that odd look that is half concern (whether for my sanity or my physical health I cannot say) and half disbelief, but he does not understand how my mind grabs onto a topic and does not let go, rendering any and all distractions useless at best and frustrating interruptions at worst.

When I do not have a case to solve, however, is when I have the worst of it, for then my mind simply casts around for something to concentrate on, and I know from long experience that little holds my interest for long. It is a curious thing, how sometimes I can spend days on end at my chemistry equipment, working out formulas, and on others the mere sight of a vial drives me to such boredom that the occupation itself seems pointless. I have a hypothesis that if I have already worked out the solution in my head, the physical work of proving it seems utterly pointless. Someday perhaps I shall write a monograph on the differing ways men's minds function, using my own as an example.

On nights like this, when I cannot get my own mind to quiet enough for me to sleep, I have found the only thing to do is to play my violin. The differing strains of varying types of music are the only thing that consistently offer enough of a distraction to occupy me on long nights when I would otherwise be lying awake for most of the night, caught in the same long, circular thought process I have never been able to find my way out of. I know well that such leads me to black moods, and I will do nigh anything to avoid that. Watson has yet observe me in one of my darker periods, and I have no desire to subject him, or myself, to that, not when my situation has been better this year than any previous year and he is still recovering his own health.

No, the only thing that could chase away such a mood was music, but no sooner had I begun the opening bars of Vivaldi's Violin Concerto than I heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the stairs. Blast! I have been sharing these rooms for almost a full year, yet I still have difficulty remembering that the sound of my midnight violin playing carries easily through the ceiling into Watson's room. This was hardly the first occasion I had woken up my fellow-lodger with my instrument, though he has maintained that he does not mind. Indeed, he often comes into the sitting room to listen when he hears me begin to play, regardless of the time. Tonight was no exception, as he appeared in his dressing gown and took his usual seat by our now-dead fire.

I have been wondering if Watson is some exception to my observational abilities. Certainly, at our first meeting, I was able to tell straightaway that he was returning from Afghanistan and that he was an Army doctor, yet in the eleven months since then, I find myself quite confounded by him. I am a logical man, and logic dictates that there is no one so easy-going that they would happily remain in the sort of environment I create without being driven away. Watson's reaction to my violin playing is one of the pieces to this puzzle I cannot figure out. All the evidence I can observe (and I have observed my fellow-lodger closely) says he is quite content to listen to me play regardless of the lateness of the hour. His enthusiastic, if somewhat sleepy, reception at the close of a piece would seem to support this, yet I cannot determine if this is, in fact, the case. Perhaps he is simply so polite that he would not dream of asking me to stop disturbing his sleep (I have noticed he seems to be rather in awe of me, a fact which brings me no end of amusement, since he has faced considerable danger and I am hardly the equivalent of a Jezail bullet). Perhaps, I thought, he is as sleepless as I on these long winter nights. It had been a difficult recovery these past months, and I did not think it impossible that he still found it difficult to sleep through the night. In which case, I dearly wished he would tell me, for even I was not heartless as to wish to disturb a recovering veteran's rest! Yet I found it nearly impossible to broach the topic with him, as the subject was undoubtedly personal and I did not wish to upset him. I am hardly the best person to have any sort of deep, personal conversation. Give me facts and figures, but in the land of emotions I am a stranger. And content to remain so!

Still, as I finished my next piece, I looked quizzically at Watson, who smiled as if thoroughly enjoying my impromptu midnight concert. Perhaps the fellow _was_ simply lonely enough that he did not mind even my company (poor devil, if he looks to me for any sort of friendship). "Have you any requests, Watson?" I asked, for it had become a ritual at the end of my playing sessions that I played him anything he asked for that I happened to know. As I have extensive knowledge of music, I had yet to find something he asked me for that I did not. I confess that I quite enjoyed the impressed look on his face when I inevitably played his favorites, and it had become something of a game between us for him to try to find some piece I did not know. As of now, I am the victor.

Watson brightened at the question. "Do you know any Christmas carols, Holmes? It is certainly the season for it."

Perhaps I have spoken too soon in determining that I am winning our little game of guess-the-violin-piece. I had altogether forgotten that Christmas was nearly upon us, useless interruption to the business of life as I considered it, and had not played any Christmas carols since my first lessons as a child. My ability had surpassed such simple songs at the age of eight, which is coincidentally when my first violin tutor had taken himself and his belongings from our house in the dead of night.

I was about to say this, but Watson looked so deucedly hopeful that I faltered. I have no idea whatsoever is the matter with me, but I determined that I must have the music to at least one Christmas carol about my rooms. I have a horror of discarding anything I might one day need. One may only fit so much in his brain-attic; having an extensive collection of useful material to look through allows one to delete extraneous information, provided one can always look it up.

That, of course, is dependent on being able to _find_ the information in question. I searched through the bookshelf until, buried in the back behind several volumes of a medieval music encyclopedia, I discovered an old book of Christmas carols for the violin. "I daresay you have found the one type of music I do not know," I said to Watson, propping my violin upon my shoulder again.

"I should add Christmas carols to my list of your limits," he said with a smile, and I could not help but laugh.

Thankfully, most Christmas carols are simple enough that anyone may sing along, which makes them altogether too easy to play. They hardly provided a challenge to me, though it had been decades since I had played any of them at all. It would prove useful in practicing my sight-reading, if nothing else, I thought. As I began the opening strains to "Silent Night," Watson smiled more widely and closed his eyes to listen. "It is nice to be home for Christmas," my fellow-lodger said when I had finished. "I was too dreadfully ill to even notice the holiday last year, and the year before I spent it in a desert camp in Afghanistan. It is not exactly the atmosphere one hopes for on Christmas Day."

"No," I conceded. "Though it is perhaps more similar to the first Christmas than pine trees and snow, if I know anything about the geography of first-century Palestine."

Watson surprised me by beginning to laugh. "You are right, Holmes. I never thought of that. Well, any man so far from home would rather _be _at home on the holiday."

I finished a quick rendition of "Joy to the World," then turned to him. "Have you any plans to celebrate the holiday, now that you have returned home?" I asked, in genuine curiosity. I still know little of my fellow-lodger, contenting myself only with what I might observe, though I have only become more curious as the months have gone on.

"No," Watson answered. "Part of the trouble of being gone so long is that I haven't anyone left to celebrate with." A look of sadness crossed his face, and I contemplated that he, of all men, was ill-suited for such a lonely life. It is all well and good for me to go through life alone; indeed, I prefer it to the company of such shallow people as my fellow men. But Watson seemingly enjoyed the company of anyone who crossed his path, even mine. However had such a pleasant fellow found himself alone in the world?

Well, I am hardly the best person to offer any sort of comfort, and I hastily began to play "We Three Kings," gratified to see Watson's smile return. He is so very easy to please. "Have you any plans, Holmes?" he asked when I had finished.

"None," I answered. "I am quite content to remain at home and spend the day at my chemistry set, as even the hardiest of criminals take the day to make merry."

A hopeful smile crossed Watson's face. "Oh, then we might at least have Christmas dinner together. I am sure Mrs. Hudson will make something special for the day."

I nearly scraped my bow across the strings and saved the final note of the song at the last second. It had not occurred to me that we should both be home with no other plans on Christmas Day. I was, at first, annoyed that my quiet day of study would be interrupted by even such small celebrations as Christmas dinner, before I reminded myself sternly that this was what it meant to take a lodger. I had told myself I should be ready for all the interruptions such a thing would entail, and I had been lucky so far in that Watson was overall a quiet, unassuming fellow who bothered me not at all. Even, occasionally, being so good as to assist me on cases now and again and surprisingly capable of interesting conversation. Surely I could put aside my plans to let him have something of a Christmas. It would be hardly any different from any other night we had spent thus far, beginning one topic of conversation at the dinner table, only to find ourselves in front of the fire several hours later with glasses of whiskey and soda, having talked over many different topics of conversation. No, it was hardly an imposition at all.

In answer, I turned the page to find the music to "The First Noel," which seemed highly appropriate, as we should be spending our first Christmas as fellow-lodgers together. As I began to play, Watson smiled even more widely, as if he grasped my meaning, which would make him the first man of my acquaintance to do so, aside from Mycroft.

It was hardly a surprise when the sun began to rise just as I finished the last carol in the book. Watson had drifted to sleep some time ago, and I simply covered him in a nearby blanket, as he often laments how much he feels the chill since Afghanistan before finally heading to bed, my mind having finally quieted down enough to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Prompt: Holmes and Watson both enlist to fight in the Second Boer War, from Michael JG Meathook

A/N: This is set around 1901, since the Second Boer War was fought from 1899-1902. I may continue this at some point, I feel like I could get a decent casefic out of it.

* * *

It was one of the downsides of having so unique a position that it was frequently said the Empire would fall should he ever retire that Mycroft Holmes was never left alone to do the work associated with his position. He had ascended to what power he had precisely because he had the ability to analyze facts and figures in connection with each other because he had no attachments or preferences. He was perfectly unconnected and objective. So it was surely the height of irony that he, the most unsociable of men, now had to spend great portions of his day in rather pointless meetings of various ministers. Indeed, he often suspected that none of the various members of Cabinet could come to any sort of agreement were he not there to figure out how all their disparate policies and opinions would come together.

This was how Mycroft found himself at a meeting during which the Secretary of State was reading out a lamentable report about the British losses against the Boers in South Africa. It had been Mycroft's carefully considered opinion, based on every fact at his disposal, that getting involved in yet another South African war had been foolhardy. The Boers were entrenched and the British forces underprepared, and no amount of gold found in the area could be worth the cost in terms of lives lost and equipment used. There was the matter too of yet another foreign territory to govern, the labor that would be needed to extract said gold. The effort was not worth the cost, and Mycroft had told the Prime Minister as such, but he and the rest of the Cabinet were utterly struck, as most men were, by the power of that particular gold rock. Mycroft had never seen much value in it; based on all of human history it seemed to him that the pursuit of it had caused much misery and led to little good, but one could not deny that its hold was powerful and its financial effects considerable.

Mycroft observed the members of Cabinet from his seat at the end of the table. The various ministers usually avoided the seats next to him until there were none others left, and those that did take those seats often surreptitiously moved them so as to put more space between them and Mycroft. He was used to this; aware that most men thought him rather a cold fish and were a tad leery of him, or else in awe like poor Dr. Watson. He settled in to pay attention to the next report, a concerning one about the high rates of loss of life among the British troops. "Of course there are the usual amounts of men picked off by Boers, skirmishes and raids and the like. They've resorted to _guerilla _tactics." He said the words in a hushed, horrified tone, as though only savages would use such horrifying tactics. Mycroft was not sure what other tactics men in the wild bush would be expected to use. They could hardly line up in neat formations as British troops still did, despite this very technique having lost them several wars in the past. The war against the nascent United States for one. Mycroft thought about pointing this out, then realized he get nowhere. Those baying for blood would always get it, and part of how he'd survived so long in government was by keeping his head down. He wondered what Whitehall would have on for lunch that day, instead. "There are, of course, always fevers and sickness, but this report from the troops stationed at T-," naming a large post on the outskirts of British-held territory, "they've lost rather an alarming number of men recently, with no battle to show for it, and surprising low rates of illness. In fact, their army doctor says he's never seen troops quite so healthy."

Mycroft sat up straighter. An interesting problem. "Does the commander have any ideas?" he asked, and it was a mark of the respect in which he was held that the room fell silent. They might not always take his advice, but he had been right too often for them to ignore it altogether.

The Secretary of State looked down at his report again. "Well, the commander thinks it might well be murder. Of course, he does not say so lightly, since the only real suspects are those on the base. One hardly wants to declare our troops as murderers."

Mycroft thought about mentioning the rather large rates of crime reported in India that could be by none other than the British troops stationed there, but thought better of it. "Have they come any closer to determining the culprit?" he asked. An isolated base, no enemy in sight, a group of men who had no company but each other, under harsh discipline...there were many points of interest to it.

"None," the Secretary said in a defeated tone. "The commander wired for help only two days ago, and sounded exceedingly desperate."

"Say, Holmes, isn't your brother a detective?" the Minister for Defense Procurement, a rather pompous man whose intellect suggested he had the position through his ancestral pedigree and not for any aptitude at politics, said.

"Why, yes," Mycroft said, acting for all the world as if the very concept was a surprise, and not that he'd thought of Sherlock almost immediately. His brother was many things - infuriating and stubborn came to mind - but the greatest detective the world over did happen to be one of them.

"Well, I daresay he could figure it out!"

"Undoubtedly," Mycroft says. "However, Sherlock does not leave London, except when a case captures his interest enough to do so." He had dearly wished to keep Sherlock on as a foreign agent after his successful stint as a spy during what he dramatically called his "Great Hiatus." Sherlock's absolute refusal to even consider the idea was the only thing preventing Mycroft from doing so; to the nation's loss, for Sherlock was better at it than most of the men trained as such.

"Well, I daresay we could certainly reward him for his troubles," the Prime Minister began to say gruffly. "Certainly it would be a service to the Crown."

"I am sorry to report that money interests my brother not at all, and patriotism even less," Mycroft said. "Only the interest inherent to the case itself would induce him to take it." He smiled. "Yet I believe this case has factors of interest which may appeal to him. I shall certainly bring it up."

"Inform him the government shall pay for all expenses, and his transport," the Prime Minister said.

"Yes, I will. For two?" Mycroft asked. "I can assure you my brother will not take the case without Dr. Watson."

"On one condition."

"If that is the requirement, Mycroft, I shall certainly refuse the case," Sherlock declared the next day in Mycroft's office.

"Come, Sherlock, I thought you of all people would understand the necessity," Mycroft said. "You are to travel to South Africa, to an army camp, to solve a string of murders. You simply cannot do so as Sherlock Holmes! The assailant would know you are there and do whatever it takes to ensure you are no longer a threat. You _must_ travel undercover."

"But to enlist in the _army_?" Sherlock argued. "You know I have never been one to obey orders."

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose where a headache was forming. No, indeed, his brother had never met a suggestion he had not opposed merely on principle. "You pride yourself on your ability to disguise yourself, do you not? To take on a role other than your own?" He often wondered if his brother would have quite so difficult to deal with had he become an actor instead of a detective. Probably, he decided.

"Yes, but I have never portrayed a soldier, Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"Well, you shall have plenty of time to practice. The journey can take up to twenty days," Mycroft said. "And an excellent example to follow. Dr. Watson will be accompanying you, undercover as well, of course."

"I shall?" Poor Dr. Watson looked rather alarmed at the idea, and Sherlock jumped up.

"You cannot be serious! Watson is as thoroughly incapable of deceiving anyone as you are of solving this case yourself!"

Mycroft often had cause to wonder what the devil Dr. Watson - as ordinary and inoffensive an Englishman as there ever was - saw in his brother. He glanced at the doctor to see his mustache twitching in amusement. Heaven help the commander of the base when they arrived. Heaven help the ship's captain who transported them too, now that Mycroft thought of it. His brother and Dr. Watson trapped on a ship for nearly three weeks was nigh unimaginable.

"Then it is a good thing Dr. Watson will not be deceiving anyone. I have taken the liberty of enlisting him as an Army doctor with the rank of Captain." Mycroft turned to the doctor. "I thought it would be easier if you were simply to act as yourself as far as is possible."

"I quite agree," Dr. Watson answered. "Dissimulation really is not one of my strengths."

"And you, Sherlock, shall be a Lieutenant. Pickory, I believe is the name I chose."

"A Lieutenant?" Sherlock seized the papers and scanned his fictional biography.  
Mycroft, why have you made me lower in rank than Watson?"

Dr. Watson burst into laughter, and Mycroft sighed, "Because, brother mine, Dr. Watson has in reality been a soldier, knows how to act the part, and you have not. You've just finished telling me you aren't a soldier at all, you may as well allow someone who is to lead you."

Sherlock looked decidedly unhappy about the entire situation, but continued perusing the file he had been given with the facts of the case. He soon was muttering to himself over it. Good. He was interested enough to take the case. "Your travel papers," Mycroft said, attempting to hand them to Sherlock, who ignored them in favor of studying the case. "Oh, never mind, Doctor, here you are," Mycroft said, turning to give them to Dr. Watson instead.

"Thank you," Dr. Watson said. "Holmes? Oh, I mean - Sherlock?" He blushed furiously red, and Mycroft could not help but be amused. Why the devil they both still insisted on the exclusive use of surnames after twenty years friendship was beyond even his understanding. Why, Sherlock had shared rooms with Watson longer than he ever had with Mycroft.

"Yes, yes, Watson, I am coming," Sherlock said. "I daresay the case will be shorter than either the journey there or back," he said to Mycroft. "I shall see you on our return."

"Do wire if you need anything, _Lieutenant_," Mycroft said, and was rewarded with a dark look as his brother left. It was almost enough to make him wish he was going too - watching Sherlock attempt to live as a soldier was sure to be enough entertainment for a lifetime.


	15. Chapter 15

Prompt: Scandal! Murder! Outrage! The papers are reporting crimes that never happened, but to what nefarious end? from ThatSassyCaptain

* * *

"Holmes, have you seen the papers this morning?" I asked, directing my attention toward my friend, who was currently stretched across our settee in a cloud of smoke.

"Not yet, Watson," he answered. "Why? Has there been something of note?"

"I should think so," I answered, folding the paper so his attention might be directed toward the story I had just read. "I cannot believe you have heard nothing of this."

Holmes took the paper and after a few moments reading of it, sat up straight. I had often likened my friend's manner when on a case to that of a bloodhound after a scent, and I recognized the signs of a new problem to solve on him. "The heiress to a substantial fortune in American steel, in London for the season, was left on the eve of her engagement with a note listing only five different species of tropical birds? Even more, Watson, the name of the suitor is not given. Evidently the lady and her family wished to keep it all quiet, for the newspapers not to print the man's name."

"He must undoubtedly be wealthy and well-regarded himself, to have met and won such a lady," I remarked.

"Indeed, Watson, indeed, we must not forget that it is perhaps his family that wishes to keep things silent," Holmes said.

"What do you think it is, Holmes?" I asked. I cast my mind back to similar cases, my imagination taking hold of the facts of the case. Perhaps the man had had a nervous break that he wished to conceal, that might even be because of a family history of mental instability they wished to keep hidden. Or, perhaps there had been a previous affair that would cause embarrassment to the family and prevent the current match from taking place. It would not be the first time Holmes had intervened in such an event, I thought, recalling the story I had titled "The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor."

"It is a capital mistake to theorize before obtaining the facts, and we know nothing but what has been published in the newspapers," Holmes said grandly. From downstairs, we heard a knock at the door, and he added, "Though I wager that is Lestrade right now to ask for my assistance."

It was indeed our friend Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and no sooner had he arrived then Holmes was pulling on his traveling cloak. "Well, Lestrade? Have you any further word on the case?"

"It is a strange business, Mr. Holmes," the inspector said. "In fact, I daresay you've never seen one like this! The family was most anxious to have the whole business cleared up at once."

"That is understandable," I said. "Surely it is a matter of great embarrassment to them, for their daughter to be left nearly at the altar!"

"But that is just it, Dr. Watson," Lestrade said. "She hasn't been left at all! When we arrived, the lady and her fiancé were most happily engaged in plans for their wedding next week!"

"There was no disappearance?" Holmes asked.

"None at all," Lestrade answered, shaking his head. "What the family is most anxious to clear up is the matter of who allowed such a story to be published in the first place."

"Who indeed?" Holmes mused, sinking into the armchair with his coat still on. "It is a puzzle, Lestrade."

"Perhaps it was an honest mistake," I said, "and it was some other lady whose fiancé left her, and the newspaper merely mixed up the names."

"Perhaps," Holmes said, though his tone left little doubt he thought this unlikely. "It does not do to take form any theory until I have more data."

With no other facts forthcoming, Lestrade took himself back to Scotland Yard to write up his report and Holmes sank further into the armchair in a cloud of darker smoke, from which he did not emerge until it was nearly dinnertime, during which he espoused at length about the unique phrasing used in tenth-century Germanic chants.

I opened our newspaper the next morning and was not surprised to find no mention of the unfortunate lady from yesterday, though I noted with mild concern that a successful break-in had occurred at the British Museum yesterday afternoon, in broad daylight. According to the curator, several valuable pieces of Egyptian art had been taken. "Holmes, this must have happened exactly as we were occupied with yesterday's false case," I said.

"What did you say, Watson?" Holmes asked, and as I prepared to repeat myself, our door burst open to reveal Inspector Lestrade, again.

"Mr. Holmes - a murder reported in Piccadilly - you must come!"

"I've heard nothing of a murder," I said, holding up my newspaper. "Surely it would have been printed!"

"It was in the _Telegraph_," Lestrade said. "Not the _Times_."

"I am sure the _Times _will be most upset they missed out on such a story," Holmes drawled. "Come, we are wasting time." I hastened to find my coat and hurried out the door after Holmes, who was already hailing a cab when I joined him.

However, when we arrived at the location of the supposed murder, we found only a guardsman, who seemed thoroughly confused to find multiple Scotland Yard inspectors and Sherlock Holmes at his doorstep. "No, there's been no murder here," he said.

"How can there be no murder?" Lestrade asked heatedly, before turning to my friend for an answer. "Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes did not answer, merely swept the inspector aside and turned in the other direction. I hurried to follow, and was not surprised when he began discoursing to me about the matter. "There is no sense to be made of this, Watson. I am missing something. How is it in two days there have been two reported crimes, both sensational, and yet neither is real?"

I knew better than to answer, for it helped Holmes to lay the facts of a case out rather than go over them in his head, though he undoubtedly did much of that as well. He relapsed into silence as we walked, disappearing into his bedroom as soon as we returned to Baker Street. I settled in front of the fire with the evening edition of the paper, where there was little to interest me, other than a mysterious railway delay that resulted in the loss of several passengers' luggage. The loss was deemed substantial, as the travellers were transporting some very fine pieces of jewelry. My mind, however, was caught up in Holmes's case, and I could not concentrate on anything else, wondering if there should be another such false crime or if he would solve it first.

The next morning, the lost train luggage was forgotten in favor of the assault on a Member of Parliament who represented a wealthy district not far from London. The outrage was splashed across every morning headline, for the man was seemingly well-liked by his colleagues and popular in his district for the many good works he had done for the poor. "I expect you will be called for again, Holmes," I said, motioning to the headline.

Holmes barely glanced at it. "First the _Times, _then the _Telegraph, _today it is the _Scotsman_. I daresay tomorrow there will be another false crime advertised."

"You do not think it is true?" I asked.

"I know it is not true, Watson, for I have received a telegram from the very man at the center of the case. He is perfectly alright, but is anxious to know why the papers have said he was the victim of an attack when he spent the night peacefully at home." Holmes paused to light a cigarette, then went on, "Undoubtedly someone is behind these false stories, but I cannot see the reason for it! I cannot see why would anyone go to such trouble to falsify newspaper accounts; for you know, Watson, how difficult that is, to create a trail for a journalist to follow before a story is printed. There would seem to be no purpose in it!"

"Perhaps there is none," I suggested. "Perhaps whoever is behind it merely finds some perverted sense of enjoyment in it."

"There is always a motive, Watson," Holmes said.

I turned back to my newspaper and left him to mull over the facts of the case. "It seems odd to me that it should be different newspapers each day," I said, as the thought occurred to me.

"Well, once he fools one newspaper they will certainly be on their guard for any more false stories, so he must necessarily switch to another one," Holmes said. "That is the easy part, Watson."

Disappointed, for I thought I had hit on an important clue, I left to go on my rounds and did not return until midday, to find Holmes still where I had left him, in the armchair thinking over the false newspaper stories. No sooner had I arrived then Billy the pageboy knocked on our door. "Telegram for Mr. Holmes!"

"Thank you, lad," I said. Holmes showed no interest in the telegram, so I opened it and read it with increasing alarm. "Holmes, it says this morning a police archive was set afire."

"What?" Holmes asked. He jumped up and read the telegram himself. "Watson, I have been a fool! The motive, Watson! The fiend behind the false crimes reported by the newspapers was hoping to distract me so he might be free to conduct his true crimes elsewhere! Do you see? The burglary at the British Museum, the theft of the luggage on the train, and now this!"

I had to admit I did not. I had not thought he had even noticed such little stories, buried as they were, but it seemed that he had. "You think the fiend was directing these stories at you?" I finally asked.

"Well, perhaps at Scotland Yard as well," Holmes conceded. "But any criminal capable of planning and executing this must know of my existence and be willing to go to any length to keep me off his trail. I know of only one man who could do such a thing."

"Holmes, you cannot mean-!"

Holmes nodded solemnly. "It can only be Moriarty, Watson."


	16. Chapter 16

Prompt: Things no one expects, from sirensbane

A/N: Angst ahead!

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade had learned not to expect anything in particular from Scotland Yard's resident consulting detective. In the few short years since Sherlock Holmes had begun assisting the inspectors on cases, Lestrade had arrived at Montague Street to find everything from evidence of chemical explosions (and on one memorable occasion, a chemical explosion in the process of happening), the floor carpeted in more paper than he had ever seen and he who had started in the Yard's archives, and several screaming lectures on the part of the landlady, who may have been the only person who disliked private consulting detectives more than the Yard. This consulting detective, anyway, and as he remarked on every possible occasion, he _was_ the only one.

Not that Lestrade really disliked the fellow. Holmes was just so deucedly hard to work with, constantly assuming he was the most intelligent person in the general vicinity and taking great pains to let everyone know it. The fact that he usually ended up being right about that didn't do anything to endear him to the Yarders who had to work with him. There were times he seemed almost inhuman. Not that he was ever deliberately cruel; Lestrade could never accuse him of that and remain truthful. No, Holmes was a perfect gentleman, but he sometimes let the feelings he claimed he didn't have show. The occasional frustrated or snide remark when he was so sure he was miles ahead of everyone else, or else simply forgetting that the men didn't exactly appreciate being woken from their beds in the early hours of the morning for a stakeout or that they did need to pause an investigation to take care of such ordinary human activities such as eating. Lestrade was certain that Holmes was not trying to make himself the least popular man among the entirety of Scotland Yard; simply that he himself often forgot that such things were necessary. Once on a case he could not be taken off it until he had solved it, or else drove himself the edges of human endurance. Lestrade had also not expected to have to halt an investigation because Holmes had fainted and nearly fallen into the Thames. He often thought the fellow needed someone to look after him, but heaven help anyone who took on the job.

When Sherlock Holmes sent word to Lestrade that he had moved out of the Montague Street rooms and now was to be found at 221b Baker Street. Lestrade had to confess that was the last thing he expected to hear. He had thought there wasn't another landlord in London who would rent rooms to Holmes. He'd heard the stories from the landlady at Montague Street, midnight violin solos and the constant smell of chemicals. He could reasonably be called the worst tenant in London. Baker Street, too, was a very nice, central address. Far above what Lestrade thought Holmes could afford. The man looked as if he ate hardly a thing and certainly Scotland Yard was not paying him for his services - one thing Lestrade had expected when they began officially consulting Holmes was to be presented with a bill, and none had ever arrived. He had no idea what fee, if any, Holmes asked of his private clients, but if Lestrade had a guess, he didn't think anyone would want to go to those dreadful Montague Street rooms to call on him. They'd have to get past that landlady, for one.

When Lestrade first called at the new Baker Street rooms he was impressed; the place was clean and in a fashionable area, the landlady pleasant. Holmes was the same as ever, aloof and condescending. However, he had the surprise of his life when Holmes gestured lazily to somewhere behind Lestrade and said, "Allow me to introduce you to my fellow-lodger, Dr. Watson."

Lestrade whirled around to find himself faced with an ordinary-looking man with a mustache, who smiled politely and excused himself so Holmes might meet with Lestrade privately. Lestrade stared after him in amazement. It certainly explained how Holmes was paying for these rooms but how the devil had he managed to find someone who would consent to live with him? Perhaps Dr. Watson was equally eccentric, prone to keeping odd animals about or practicing sword-fighting indoors. But as the months went on, Dr. Watson revealed himself to be exactly what he seemed: a perfectly friendly, ordinary Englishman, albeit one who must have considerably more reserves of patience than anyone else. Especially since Holmes himself proved to be the one who practiced with weapons indoors, Lestrade noted, after visiting one day to find a series of holes in the wall that spelled out Her Majesty's initials.

Thereafter, things Lestrade did not expect happened with more frequency. Holmes's edges seemed to soften somewhat under his lodger's influence; he even remembered more than once to stop for a quick meal while on a case, though Lestrade thought this was more for Dr. Watson's benefit than anyone else's. He occasionally seemed to think better of the remarks he was accustomed to make about the Yard's collective intelligence and ability to solve crimes. Once, he even seemed to give Lestrade a compliment. Well, Lestrade was not sure that "best of the Yarders" could really be considered a compliment, considering what Holmes's opinions of the force were as a whole, but Lestrade had picked up a few things when it came to observation, and he could tell Holmes meant it. The most unexpected thing, of course, being that Dr. Watson was soon a frequent sight at Holmes's side as his assistant. They'd thought, at the Yard, that Dr. Watson would last all of six months before he was driven out of Holmes's company, unable to stand it any longer.

Six years later, Lestrade not only expected Dr. Watson's presence on an investigation, he all but asked for it. The man was a crack shot, an excellent doctor and most importantly, brought out the best in Holmes. It was around that time that _A Study in Scarlet_ was published, and while Lestrade might have wished for a more flattering depiction of himself, he was not as put out as he might have been. It was not every man who gained literary fame, and the popularity of the novel suggested that Holmes's star was only rising. "Immortality awaits," Lestrade said to Gregson, glad that he and not his rival was the one immortalized in the book.

"Ha! No man is immortal, Lestrade," Gregson retorted. "Not even Holmes."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Lestrade said. It certainly seemed as if his career would elevate to such heights no man could touch him, and Lestrade was not about to turn down the benefits that came with such an association.

Perhaps he should not have been so optimistic, he thought, as he stared at the telegram in his hand.

IN SWIITZERLAND STOP HOLMES AND MORIARTY PERISHED STOP AT REICHENBACH FALLS STOP RETURNING TO ENGLAND AS SOON AS POSSIBLE

DR. J. WATSON

Holmes had always seemed to Lestrade to be more a force of nature than a man. It seemed as if he were nigh unstoppable. Every inspector on the force had fully expected Holmes to emerge from the Moriarty case as the triumphant victor, risen to heights any other detective would be incapable of.

None of them had expected news of his death. Why, he could not even be forty years of age! Lestrade had rather thought he'd be handed down to the next generation of Yarders, had entertained fancies that the young men coming up would be better than their forebears, because they would have the benefit of Holmes's tutelage.

Now it would never be. Sherlock Holmes was dead at the hands of a man twice his age, at the bottom of a waterfall so insignificant Lestrade had never heard of it before. That his death had also been Moriarty's downfall was no comfort; not when the Professor's right hand man had escaped. Only Holmes could have brought him down, and there would be all the cases after that, too. Whatever else Holmes had been, he had made the world a safer place for the innocent, and for that alone Lestrade mourned his loss.

That he had unexpectedly become something of a friend, someone who had recently been content to spend an evening in Lestrade's company with a good brandy, had been entirely unexpected and only made the loss harder to bear.

Well, Lestrade thought, swallowing his sherry and heading to the memorial service, there was nothing else to be done. He would offer Dr. Watson a position as substitute police surgeon, for he owed the fellow that at least. The poor man looked so diminished after the loss of his friend that Lestrade would have been worried for his sanity had he not. It would not be the same; it never could be, but then, nobody had expected Dr. Watson to be as much one of them as Holmes had become.

It was a funny way Holmes had, Lestrade thought, for someone as seemingly cold and unfeeling as he was to become so integral to so many people that the world seemed utterly changed now that he'd left it. Lestrade hadn't known many people who'd had that effect on those around them. He would never have pegged Holmes for one of them, but then, Holmes himself had never had a good opinion of Lestrade's judgment of character or perception. Perhaps he'd been right, for Lestrade had most assuredly been wrong about Holmes.

He'd only realized it too late.


	17. Chapter 17

Prompt: Wishing Well, from Winter Winks 221

* * *

My friend Sherlock Holmes was equally well-known for his prowess as a detective as he was for his eccentricities as a tenant, thanks in no small part for the stories that I began writing for my own amusement and his edification. That an interested public eagerly awaited each new installment so Holmes and I became the most famous private individuals in London was something I had hardly expected. Yet, there were things I kept from the official stories of our cases, some by Holmes's own wish, that remain little known to this day. One of these, I feel, may be best illustrated by the story I relay now for the first time.

It was a clear, sunny day in May, one of the first such in England that year when Holmes and I ventured out of our Baker Street rooms to take a walk in the nearby park. It being sunny, we were hardly alone in this idea, and the paths were full of young couples in love, old women feeding the birds and children running from those minding them. Holmes was engaged in a discourse about the various types of invisible ink and their histories and uses, a topic which had recently become of interest to him. I expected he would write a monograph soon.

Sometimes, I had found, it was best to simply allow Holmes to talk, especially on those occasions where he did not seem to require a response, merely someone to listen as he laid his thoughts out in an orderly fashion. This freed me to observe our fellow Londoners and attempt to follow his methods in deducing their occupations and life situations.

No sooner had I begun this than I was nearly bowled over by several boys running through the park. I remained annoyed only for a brief second, however, as I recognized them as several of Holmes little army of street boys who were his eyes and ears throughout the city. "Sorry, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes!" Wiggins called out.

"Slow down, now, boys!" I said, then amended myself as I noticed Melinda, the only girl allowed into Holmes's Baker Street Irregulars thus far, "And ladies, of course. Where are you going so quickly you cannot watch where you are going?"

"There's a wishing well, sir," little Sam, no more than five years old said, glancing up at Holmes. The stern look my friend gave him was the one known for making hardened criminals quail, and Sam gulped. "It's set up right the other end of the park."

"And we thought we'd make some wishes," Ronald, only a couple of years older, added, before clapping his hand over his mouth with a quick glance at Holmes.

"Come," I said, before Holmes could launch into an explanation about how wishing wells were irrational. I remembered making such wishes myself as a boy. "We shall go to the wishing well together." The well in question, when we arrived, had clearly been set up as a pleasant spot for courting couples to stop and wish for their future happiness together. But this was hardly on the minds of the Baker Street Irregulars, who ran toward it gleefully.

"I'm gonna wish for a big plate of biscuits!" Sam said.

"You're not supposed to say your wishes," Melinda said. "They won't come true if you do. Sides, Mrs. H'll give you biscuits next time we go see Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hudson had become most fond of Holmes's little street army, making sure there were biscuits and cake when they came by to visit. On more than one occasion, she had sent one of them home with a basket of bread and cheese or a few meat pies, knowing it wasn't always certain they would have a meal that night.

I frowned as something occurred to me, watching. "This seems something of a crime," I said to Holmes in an undertone. "Those children have little enough to their name; even a pence goes a long way for them! And here they are, convinced they'll get wishes by throwing it away into a well." I wondered what wealthy fellow - Mr. Dickens' Ebenezer Scrooge came to mind - had thought of such a thing.

"Why, Watson, you are learning!" Holmes said. "You surprise me. This sort of magical drivel seems to me to be the sort of thing you would ordinarily enjoy."

"Well, yes, usually," I said. "But come, Holmes, you cannot tell me you are unaware of the situation in which your Irregulars live." I had not thought of this when he had first explained his use of London's street children to me; there were many, many such children and I confess, to my shame, that one rather stopped seeing them after a time. But now I had come to know many of them. I had stitched Wiggins' arm on one occasion he had torn a gash in it climbing through a window, bought medicine with my own money for little Ronald when he'd had a cough, told them stories around the fire when it was cold out.

"I certainly am not," Holmes said. "You know the wages I pay are double what they would earn otherwise." I felt ashamed of myself for thinking it, for even in the days when Holmes and I had barely enough between us to make our monthly rent, he had paid his Irregulars considerably more than a boy could earn shining shoes or selling newspapers. It still seemed like little enough, I thought, as I watched them cluster around the wishing well.

"Someone really should do something," I said to Holmes. "That children should live like this." I watched Ronald start to chase Melinda around the well, laughing as they scandalized the courting couples. They would seem to be utterly carefree, except for the obviously poor quality of their clothes. I saw several passing gentlemen look at them harshly and deliberately move farther away. Ignorant fools, I thought with some vitriol.

"Do not think I have not mentioned it to Mycroft," Holmes said. "It is a larger problem than it seems, according to him. I do not see why it should be, but then I am not the British government."

This surprised me utterly, for Holmes had no interest in politics and I had half believed he had no idea who the Prime Minister was at any given time. "You have?" I asked.

"Well, it is certainly in my interest to have a more stable little police force," Holmes said. "One where I do not have to constantly search out its members when they are forced to move, or teach to read myself."

"You taught them to read?" I asked in even more shock. That did explain how they had learned, for certainly none of them had attended school.

"I engaged a teacher for the first boys I took on," Holmes said. "With the understanding that they would teach those that followed. It has worked admirably."

"Yes, but that is hardly enough," I said. "You do know Melinda's family has been forced to move out of the last two flats they held? They live in dreadful fear of the workhouse, she has told me."

"Of course I know," Holmes said. "It was I who found them their latest flat, and guaranteed their payments."

"You, Holmes?" I asked. I could not have been more shocked had he said he had suddenly acquired a wife.

"Certainly, Watson. I am well aware of the impoverished standards of my Irregulars, and I need their services more than I need what my wealthiest clients pay me," he answered.

I suddenly remembered that every year after Christmas, the Irregulars almost managed to acquire new shoes and garments. I had never given much thought to where they had come from, but now I saw with total clarity that it was Holmes's gift to them every year. "You are the one who gives them new clothes every Christmas," I said.

"Where the deuce else would they get them, Watson?" Holmes asked, peeved, no doubt, that it had taken me several years to deduce and infer this simple fact. It was only that his cold exterior made him the last man anyone would think would be capable of such charity. I was hardly fooled by his acting as if it was the only way to ensure he had his little spies, though undoubtedly he was correct that it was.

"What did you wish for, Wiggins?" Sam asked their leader, a lanky boy of about ten.

"Not supposed to say," Wiggins said.

"Please? Please, please, please?" Sam begged, until Wiggins finally rolled his eyes upwards.

"Fine, if you must know. I wished I could be a detective when I grow up, like Mr. Holmes." The boy's face turned bright red as he said it and he glanced down at his shoes. "Let's go, Sam, Ronald. Got to get home 'fore dark, don't we?"

"Well," Holmes remarked to me. "That is a remarkable chain of events, and I daresay one wish that will actually come true. I've had it in mind to send Wiggins to the police academy when he comes of age."

"You have?" I asked.

"I am always certain to find positions for my Irregulars when they grow too old to assist me in that way anymore," Holmes said. "It is a benefit to have friendly contacts in as many places as possible. For instance, Watson, the fellow who I buy my chemicals from was once a Baker Street Irregular. Well, a Montague Street Irregular, I suppose. Before your time. The leader of the Irregulars before Wiggins is now a secretary in a counting house, and I have found his knowledge of the industry very useful."

I suspect I could know Sherlock Holmes for fifty years and he would continue to surprise me, yet I have found no surprise as gratifying as knowing what he had done for London's poor and lower classes. By my estimation, some hundred families were kept from the workhouse simply because Holmes paid their children to keep their eyes open for him, and in turn lent his assistance when needed. Those children later found themselves with a valuable advantage in life, for every one of them found a valuable position thanks to his assistance. Holmes disliked credit and accolades in all instances, refusing to be named even in his most successful cases, and no record exists at all of the substantial charity he gave to his little army of street urchins, save for this account. It is my hope that Sherlock Holmes may one day be known not only as a great detective, but as good a man as one could hope to be.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Sherlock opens a school for burgeoning genius girl and boy detectives, from Michael JG Meathook

* * *

Since his retirement, my friend Sherlock Holmes professed to be finished with all things related to crime and detective work, instead devoting himself to tending his beehives. Even his long-planned textbook of deductive reasoning never appeared, as he now considered his _Practical Handbook of Bee-keeping _to be his _magnum opus. _

However, even with the best intentions, the world of criminal investigation was far from finished with Sherlock Holmes. Several times he was forced out of retirement to assist with an investigation, first in the case he entitled "The Adventure of the Lion's Mane," one of the only times he set his own pen to paper regarding one of his cases, and most notably during his time undercover in the United States. Upon finishing his patriotic duty, Holmes declared that he was altogether finished with the matter and thereafter refused any requests for assistance, of which there were many. He also refused any attempt by the government to honor him for his services over the previous forty years, including on one memorable occasion, the offer of an OBE upon the finish of the war. He and I instead spent our days in a lazy retirement with no demands on our time other than those of his bees.

It was on a bright spring morning when I happened to be fortunate enough to reach our post first, still an unusual occurrence even though neither of us received anything more important than a Christmas card anymore. Among our usual post I discovered a handsome parchment envelope addressed to Holmes, and was immediately overcome with curiosity as to what it could be. I, however, am not one to open other's correspondence, unlike my companion, and so I merely attempted to use his own methods to deduce the contents. The hand was a fine one, and the return address was from the University of London. Aside from that, I could deduce no further. "Holmes?" I called. "You have received a letter, old fellow."

He appeared at my shoulder and took the letter, reading it quickly before discarding it on the floor. "It is of no use to me, Watson," he said. I picked it up and read it myself.

"Holmes, this is from the university. They wish you to be present at the opening of their new school of criminology as guest of honor," I said. Reading the letter aloud, I continued, "'As our most famous alumnus, we can think of none better to open our new school of criminology than yourself. Our students would surely benefit from such an auspicious event as your return to London for such an occasion.' Are you really their most famous alumnus?"

"Hardly," Holmes said. "I went in for a chemistry degree, though I left after two years with my studies unfinished. Criminology was not yet a discipline of study in those days, Watson."

"I cannot imagine that there is anything any professor of criminology would have had to teach you, even then," I said. "Still, this is an honor, Holmes."

"I should have to give a speech, Watson," Holmes said. "Besides, such ribbon-cutting ceremonies are hardly any use to anybody. The students who come to this school will either become criminologists or they will not. My presence can hardly make any difference."

I could not deny that ceremonies of this sort were usually held to inflate the reputations of those already exalted, but I thought it well that the university should seek to honor my friend. "I daresay they might find it inspiring to see you inaugurate their studies," I said. "Perhaps you might use your speech to pass on some of your own experience."

Holmes stared at me in amazement. "You think I should accept, Watson, do you not?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I have missed London lately," I said. "Besides, Holmes, these young crime fighters are inheriting a different world than the one we lived in. You yourself have said that crime is not what it used to be."

"Indeed it is not, Watson," Holmes agreed. "It is much more organized, what with the gangs of organized criminals and the increase in illicit substances being sold here and there. I have long said that the more that is made illegal, the more criminals it will create. This nonsense in America about Prohibition has merely proved the point, on both sides of the Atlantic"

I cannot recall Holmes ever having said such a thing until now, but I recognized the gleam in his eye that I had always associated with a case. "So you will agree to be the guest of honor at this ceremony?" I asked.

"I suppose," Holmes answered carelessly. "I have been wanting some of those cigarettes only found at that little shop on the Strand as well."

* * *

When the day arrived, Holmes and I were met at the train station by the assistant to the University president. "Mr. Holmes, it is an honor! Oh, and Dr. Watson as well!" the young man cried, nearly falling over in his enthusiasm. "I cannot believe you have agreed to come. I grew up on the stories of your adventures, Mr. Holmes!"

I hid a laugh at the way my friend endeavoured to hide his displeasure at this, but fortunately the cab ride to the university was relatively painless, as I took the opportunity to reminisce, pointing out shops I remembered and alleyways in which Holmes and I had been caught by criminals. When we arrived at the school, it was to find a large group of students already assembled, waiting for the ceremony to begin. As soon as we passed on our way to the stage, whispers began following us.

"That's him, isn't it?"

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"Is it really him?"

"'Course it is. And that's Watson, behind him."

"Do you think he'd sign an autograph for me?"

I doubted that, highly. My friend was now well known as a recluse, and his appearance here was his first in public in decades. It was no wonder the students were in awe of him. The university president was no less in awe, for he handed over the large golden scissors with hardly a word, only a fawning welcome. I hid another smile, for I knew well how Holmes hated such fawning. I studied the brand new building, a large, modern looking stone structure that seemed not to fit the university at all. I did so prefer the design of what was already being called the Victorian Age, but then, every man so prefers the world of his youth.

Holmes kept his speech short, merely welcoming the students to their new school and wishing them luck with their studies. I suspect some of them might have been disappointed, yet only I knew how Holmes disliked such pointless public speaker. When tasked with revealing the close of a case, he was in his element, but the grandiosity and emotion called for by such an occasion were not among his strengths. Yet everyone applauded, more because of his presence than anything else.

"Well, I am quite glad to be finished with that," Holmes declared as we left in search of his cigarettes, which I knew to be the real reason he had decided to come back to London after so many years.

"Well, Holmes, with such an opening, I hope that school will become a proving ground for the next generation of genius detectives," I said.

Holmes sniffed derisively. "I doubt it, Watson. Did you see them? Mere children, boys and girls barely out of grammar school. The Yard even at its worst inspired more confidence."

"They are young, yet," I said. "I have every confidence that they shall grow to be worthy of the mantle you left them."

Holmes, to my surprise, smiled. "Always so optimistic, Watson, despite it all."

"Well, I find I can be nothing else," I replied, thinking of all I had lived through in my long, adventurous life. Yet somehow, Holmes and I were still here in these new 1920s, watching the next generation of detectives rise to prominence. "I, for one, am looking forward to seeing this new world," I said.

"Then I shall simply look forward to returning to Sussex Downs," Holmes said. "I am sure my bees need looking after, we have been gone so long."


	19. Chapter 19

Prompt: "Don't open that yet!" from cjnwriter

* * *

Within a few short weeks of taking rooms with Sherlock Holmes, I realized that attempting to hide anything from him would be a futile effort. There was little he could not determine from a mere look, and anything that he could not, he soon figured out by use of his formidable deductive ability. In many ways, I came to appreciate this aspect of my friend's character. We soon dispensed with such trivial discussions about our daily activities as Holmes needed only a glance to determine how my day had been spent, on those occasions we did not spend the daytime hours together in the first place. This meant that we were free to engage in more interesting and entertaining topics of conversation. In addition, despite Holmes's sometimes cold exterior, he was better at determining one's mood than any man I have ever met, and while he may have openly disparaged the softer emotions, he could be most sympathetic in his own manner, appearing with his violin and a succession of my favorite pieces after a day spent dealing with difficult patients, or a suggestion of an evening out if I seemed bored.

There were, however, times when Holmes's unique character was a trial to live with, even to me. This was no more evident than each December, when I endeavoured to hide Holmes's Christmas gift until the day arrived. Holmes, of course, declared himself above such trivial matters as celebrating the holiday, and it is true that we usually passed the day quietly, he engaged more often than not in some chemical experiment and I with a novel. But it is equally true that Mrs. Hudson always outdid herself in preparing a magnificent Christmas dinner, usually followed by Holmes playing a succession of Christmas carols on his violin before we finished the evening with a festive glass of port. We also always exchanged Christmas gifts, and his to me were rare tokens of his affection that I treasured.

This Christmas, I had managed to secure us tickets for a highly anticipated performance of Bruch's violin concertos, to be performed on consecutive nights by a virtuoso violinist visiting from Austria. Tickets promised to be difficult to come by, and I considered myself fortunate that I had obtained two for such decent seats. The matter remained, however, of ensuring Holmes did not find them for two entire weeks before Christmas.

I was fortunate that the winter had been mild thus far and I had fewer patients than usual to attend to. This was how I arrived at Baker Street earlier than expected one afternoon to find Holmes looking through our newly arrived post. I had long ago given up on expecting Holmes not to look through my correspondence in addition to his own; he was correct that one of his many enemies in the criminal class might attempt to do us harm through it, and he would never be so ungentlemanlike as to actually open anything private. He performed a valuable service in that he discarded useless advertisements and such, leaving me with only what I needed. But that day, I gasped aloud and hurried across the room as I saw him about to open a large, handsome envelope with the return address of the Royal Albert Hall. "Holmes, do not open that yet!" I cried, realizing immediately that the tickets had arrived.

"Whyever not, Watson?" Holmes asked. "Have you acquired some enemy among the chamber orchestras I do not know about?"

It was utterly typical that his mind should immediately assume I knew about some assailant he did not. "Not at all," I said. "It is just that this is private."

Holmes's keen grey eyes fixed themselves upon me, and I remembered too late how utterly useless it was to attempt to keep anything from him. I had every expectation that he would treat this little mystery exactly as he would a murder, and turn the full force of his powers upon it. "That is my Christmas gift, is it not, Watson?"

Holmes maintains that I have no gift for dissimulation, and he is largely correct, though this has not prevented him from depending on my small ability as an actor to play several different parts in the course of an investigation. Perhaps he had more faith in my powers of deception than I that I could fool a criminal we were trying to trap. I, however, knew beyond any doubt that any ability I had was not up to fooling Holmes. "No," I said, though I could feel a flush creeping up my neck and knew that he would not be swayed by such a lackluster performance. "Not at all."

"Come, Watson, it is hardly a difficult deduction," Holmes said. "It is two weeks prior to Christmas and you have never made any fuss about my opening your post before. It can only be that there is something in that letter you do not wish me to see. You are not in the habit of receiving letters from anyone associated with the Royal Albert Hall and the timing of this letter suggests that it can only be your Christmas gift to me."

I was strongly reminded of the number of criminals who had lost hope when faced with his triumphant gaze and a string of logical deductions. Perhaps I am made of stronger stuff than they are, or perhaps it is merely because I have seen Holmes when he first awakes in a poor mood before breakfast, but I was not quailed by it. "I shall not tell you," I said.

"You do not need to, Watson, for your refusal tells me I am correct," Holmes said, bringing his fingertips together in front of him. "It is only a matter of seeing what is on at the Royal Albert Hall to determine what it is you have got us tickets for."

"Perhaps, Holmes, I have got tickets for someone else," I said.

"None of your friends at the club are connoisseurs of music," Holmes said, dismissing immediately the idea that one could go to a concert without being a connoisseur. He did, however, happen to be correct. He was the only one I ever attended concerts with. Perhaps if I truly wanted to fool him I should have made sure to invite Stamford to a concert or two so that it would appear more probable that I might purchase concert tickets for someone else.

"Perhaps I shall introduce them," I said. "You cannot be sure that I am not doing exactly that."

"No," Holmes said. "It is not impossible and therefore I cannot eliminate it. Still, I have the schedule of performances for the season here and that should give me a clue as to what you may have purchased."

Blast it, for he knew my musical tastes well enough to guess what I would be likely to purchase, and if he saw Bruch on the schedule he would know immediately what I was going to give him. There was only one thing for it. I hurried over and snatched the program from his hands. "I am not telling you, and that is final, Holmes!" I felt rather like the parent of a particularly recalcitrant three-year-old.

Holmes merely laughed aloud as I went upstairs to hide both the tickets and the program schedule somewhere safe. "You have given me a pretty problem to work on, Watson, in the absence of any real crime!"

I did not know whether to be grateful for that, knowing what Holmes was like when he did not have a case, or worried that it would prove impossible for my gift to remain a surprise.

I remained on constant vigilance for the next two weeks. Holmes was too gentlemanly to search my room when I was not there, and in any case I thought he would view it as too easy to simply search for the envelope, so I was certain the tickets were safe where I had hidden them in the pocket of a summer jacket. I had learned a thing or two from Holmes, namely, that hiding places should be places where it would be otherwise natural to put things, not unusual places set aside specifically for hiding things. I had only to remember they were there, or else I was liable to forget about the tickets until next summer when I looked to wear the jacket.

Holmes had taken to scouring the newspapers for any hint of future performances at the Royal Albert Hall, something I had not considered as he ordinarily read only the criminal news and the agony column. I responded by ensuring that I woke up early each day, before five o'clock, to intercept the paper boy as he delivered _The Times_ so I could remove the section on the arts before Holmes got to it. On the third day of this, I was caught by Mrs. Hudson as she woke to begin breakfast. "Dr. Watson, whatever are you doing?" she asked, startled.

"Ensuring Holmes does not get the newspaper first," I said, taking the newspaper from the boy and giving him a shilling for his trouble. Mrs. Hudson looked at me as if worried for my well-being, and I sighed. "This is what I must go through to ensure Holmes's Christmas gift remains a secret until the day," I said.

"Oh, well that explains it," our estimable landlady answered, as if this were a perfectly ordinary thing to have to do. "I wish you luck, Doctor."

"I am sure I shall need it," I answered. "Would you mind terrible throwing this in the fire?" I added, handing her the arts section. "I would not put it past him to fish it out of the trash and piece it back together if I merely ripped it up."

"Not at all, Doctor," she said. "I'll make sure to keep an eye out for the paper myself, so you might sleep a little."

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a saint," I said. There was no better landlady in all London, I was certain.

By three days before Christmas, I had taken to carrying the tickets around with me, and was feeling rather as if I was holding back a bloodhound on the scent. If only some client would arrive with a problem for Holmes to solve! At the end of my patience, I sent a telegram to Inspector Lestrade, asking if he had any cases he would like to consult Holmes on. I was rewarded by the appearance of the little inspector later that evening, though disappointed that he carried news of no crime. Instead, he spent the evening with us, telling Holmes of the crimes the Yard had managed to solve without his help. This was a frequent game among us, for Holmes would invariably attempt to guess the solution based on the facts Lestrade gave him, claiming it kept his mind sharp. I was merely glad to have him distracted for an evening, and thanked Lestrade profusely when he left. "I have been trying to hide his Christmas gift," I explained, "and he insists on treating it as a case he must solve urgently."

Lestrade laughed aloud. "Good luck to you, Doctor. No wonder you look so exhausted!"

"It is no matter," I said. "Tomorrow is Christmas and he shall have his present."

I had every intention of enjoying my Christmas, and so I simply put the envelope down at his table setting in the morning, knowing that I should not have a moment's peace all day if I had to keep on hiding it. Holmes arrived for breakfast soon afterwards, smiling when he saw the familiar envelope. "Ah, Watson, I knew you were attempting to hide my Christmas gift these last few weeks. Do not think I did not figure out where the arts section of the newspaper went each day."

I watched as he opened the envelope, gratified when I saw his eyes light up in anticipation. "Why, Watson, this will be an historic performance! You do know that this is the violinist whose interpretation of Bach was called revolutionary? I can hardly wait to hear how he plays Bruch." He looked up at me. "These cannot have been easy to get at all."

"Well, they weren't, but that was child's play compared to keeping them hidden from you for the past two weeks!" I said. "I believe I now have a good idea what it is to be a criminal you are chasing. I would not wish it on my worst enemy."

Holmes laughed aloud. "Ah, Watson, you know I cannot rest if there is a problem to be solved. But I do appreciate the effort, my dear fellow. Thank you very much, my dear Watson, and now you may tell all your readers you have succeeded in fooling Sherlock Holmes where all others have failed."

I could not help but burst into laughter at the idea, in which Holmes soon joined me before we tucked in to Mrs. Hudson's delicious Christmas breakfast spread.


	20. Chapter 20

Prompt: Sherlock wakes up in an alternate reality in which he has a wife and children, was never a detective, living in a much scarier and crime-filled version of London, and a still-living Moriarty is the Prime Minister., from Michael JG Meathook

* * *

I have long prided myself on my intellect and mastery of any given situation, so when I found myself walking along a cold, smog-filled street with nary an idea of how I had come to be there, I perhaps panicked more than most men would. I expect most people find themselves in places they do not intend to be with no idea how they got there with some frequency, judging by the vacant way my fellow men move through the world and the sheer number of kidnappings which take place in broad daylight. Watson would say I am being unfair, though at this thought I was distracted. Where _was_ Watson? I could not imagine I should find myself in such a lonely corner of London alone, especially when I was not disguised.

Well, no matter. I pride myself also on my knowledge of the city and I soon gained my bearings and made my hurried way back to Baker Street. But when I arrived, it was hardly the Baker Street I knew, and I had a sudden intuition that things were not as they should be. The ordinarily bright windows of all the houses were dark, and more than a few were boarded up. It looked much more like one of the impoverished neighborhoods on the East End than the Baker Street I knew, and I was instantly adrift. I dislike feeling lost, and the sight of the darkened windows of 221b only made me press on further. I have learned not to discount intuition, though I will admit I always feel more grounded once I have managed to think my way through it and uncover the unconscious deductions that led me to the conclusion in the first place.

Well, if 221b Baker Street was to provide no clues to this mystery I should have to find somewhere else that would. I turned and headed toward Watson's practice; though I realized later this should have been my first clue that something was wrong, as Watson had long sold his practice and was living at Baker Street again by this time. Odd that I should have forgot this. At the moment, I could think of nothing else but trying to determine the cause of these odd occurrences. I am not sentimental or prone to moments of panic, but I am not also not above admitting that I do have a tendency to run away with myself and that Watson has a long proven calming ability I find most helpful.

When I arrived I was relieved to find the lights in Watson's practice lit, and was about to knock on the door when it opened of its own accord. Instead of my friend Watson, I was shocked to be faced with the figure of a handsome woman with bright, intelligent eyes and two small children,a boy and a girl no more than eight years old who waited patiently for their mother on the stoop. "You must come along, my dear, or else we shall be late," the woman called back into the house.

I confess I was utterly confused. Watson's estimable wife was long dead by this point, and in any case this woman was not her, and they had not had children. Where the devil had they come from? I continued watching, only to have the surprise of my life (no easy feat) when I saw the man who followed his wife out the door.

It was myself. As I appeared now, so I looked there. I watched in a strange fascination as my doppelganger patted the children's heads and locked the door, taking the woman on his arm. What the deuce was going on here? I could come to no conclusion but the most obvious - that somehow this was my wife, my children and my house instead of Watson's save that this was utterly impossible. Perhaps it was for a case. Yes, that must be it, I thought, yet no sooner had this thought crossed my mind than I discarded it. Not if those children were mine, and they carried my features too strongly to be otherwise. No, this must be real.

I am not prone to panic, yet the presence of such an impossible thing drove me closer to it than anything I have yet experienced. I hurried away from the scene and found a corner shop where they sold newspapers. I am not sure what I expected the paper to tell me, but I searched through it frantically for any clue I could gather as to this dreadful mystery I found myself in.

The newspaper was, however, empty of any clues to this world other than multiple stories of particularly heinous crimes, the violence of which I had not seen since the days of the Ripper murders and the Moriarty case. That might go some way toward explaining the state of Baker Street in this odd, alternate world, though how it should have come to be this way, I had no idea.

I closed the newspaper, idly glancing at the front page to experience the shock of my life as I saw a picture of Moriarty himself. I felt a cold flash of fear run through me, for I am not a machine, and he was the worst criminal I had ever encountered. He was also dead at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls. I was as certain of that as I was of my own name.

But not in this world. I read the story quickly, noting with another flash of horror that in this world he was _not _dead. Far from it, in fact! He had managed to get himself the position of Prime Minister! How? How had such a thing happened? I had seen my alternate self. How had he - I - allowed this to happen? Had he elected not to become a detective, in favor of the marital bliss I had seen? And where was Watson? Had we not met in this universe? Was this a hideous glimpse of the world as it would have been had I not succeeded in defeating the fiend?

* * *

"Holmes? Holmes, old fellow, are you alright?"

I woke with a start to find myself in the familiar surroundings of our Baker Street sitting room with Watson turned around in his chair, looking at me in concern. "Oh, Watson, I have never been so relieved in my life!" I declared.

"I thought you might be having a nightmare," Watson said. Dear fellow, he has enough demons of his own that he understands mine perfectly. I began to calm, feeling as if the world were righted once again.

"I thought I had woken into a dreadful alternate world," I said. "Baker Street was boarded up and the newspapers were full of the most sensational crimes. I was looking for you, and went to your practice only to find myself living there instead, with a _wife_. And children!"

Watson, bless the fellow, began to laugh aloud, showing how utterly ludicrous the idea was. "Why, that's preposterous," he said.

"It most certainly is," I said. "I have never had any interest in such things." Indeed, I find myself at a loss to understand the preoccupation most of society has with the forced pairing off we call matrimony. Even Watson, though he had chosen a most intelligent and worthy partner. I do not profess to understand the softer emotions, but I had long ago come to the conclusion that I was lacking a certain drive or force for romance and attraction most of the world seemed to share. In his stories, Watson explains this as a dislike I hold toward the fairer sex, though this is certainly not the case. He and I were both well aware that the mysterious drive I seemed not possess was not limited to the opposite sex, for in some men and women it turned upon their own. I had once been asked by an unpleasantly pompous lord to gather some sordid evidence against an author who he felt had too much influence upon his son. I had not heard of the man in question but Watson had and expressed ardent admiration for. I had refused the case, for it seemed to me that the man should be considered guilty of nothing but frequenting some less-than-respectable establishments, and I was no less guilty of that. My instincts were proven right, for the sensational trial that followed utterly destroyed his life and many others. Bah! It is not my business when men get up to in their private life, and it is not for me to sentence a man to hard labor for it. This case was useful to me, however, in proving that in some men the drive all others considered focused on wooing and marriage to the opposite sex was not the same in all. In my case, it simply was not present, and whatever the reason for that, I was grateful for it. It seemed a great waste of time to me, and I doubted I should ever find better companionship than Watson in any case.

"Not only that, you will never guess who the Prime Minister was," I said. I did so enjoy having Watson play guessing games, as he was invariably so poor at it that it proved most entertaining.

"Mycroft?" Watson guessed.

I laughed aloud. "No, Watson, my brother desires nothing more than to stay in the background. No, it was Moriarty!"

"Well, that is indeed a nightmare," Watson said, after a pause. "You know, this is probably due to that dreadful play we read yesterday, by that American Gillette."

Watson is no observer as I am, but he possesses his own intuition that is most ingenious in its own way. I had not put the two together at all, though now it seemed obvious. "That play where he wrote me as married?" I asked. We had been asked to give our approval, though I most emphatically did _not _approve of the changes made to my life story. Apparently it was merely a formality, as the show would go on whether we did or not. Thank heavens it was only playing in America thus far.

"That is the last time I allow Doyle to lend out my stories for adaptation," Watson said, though the only reason he had done so was because he was again in dire need of funds. I could not very well revoke my permission now, not when I was no longer allowing him to publish new stores. Perhaps I had been wrong about that…

"It is no matter, Watson. It was merely a nightmare and the world is righted again."

* * *

A/N: This is set in about 1898-99, which is when the William Gillette play would have been written (it opened in 1899).

If you didn't pick up on it, the sensational trial Holmes is referring to is the trial of Oscar Wilde in 1895.

I realize I stretched this prompt pretty much to the breaking point. One of the things I personally consider absolutely integral to Holmes's character is that he is asexual and aromantic and I always implicitly write him as such. He's one of the earliest characters where there's on-the-page evidence of his asexuality ("I am a brain, Watson, the rest is mere transport"), and he's still one of the only ones who can even be interpreted as aromantic. Apologies for turning the prompt on its head to get there, but even in an alternate universe I can't see him ever interested in anyone, romantically or otherwise.


	21. Chapter 21

Prompt: Mrs. Hudson: Criminal Mastermind, from sirensbane

* * *

Mrs. Hudson of 221a Baker Street didn't think of herself as anything but ordinary. She had been a perfectly respectable wife and now was a perfectly respectable widow who took in lodgers to help her afford the home she hadn't wanted to lose (and to keep herself busy, if she was honest).

It was her lodgers that were anything but ordinary, and before long Mrs. Hudson found herself the object of unusual stares and whispers behind her neighbors' hands, the same as Dr. Watson.

"How does she do it?"

"Lord knows. Did you hear him, wailing away on that violin at 3 in the morning? I couldn't get Johnny to calm down for an hour!"

No one would dare whisper behind their hands at Mr. Holmes himself, of course. Odds were that he'd know what they were saying anyway. People on Baker Street were more than a little intimidated by their resident consulting detective, something Mrs. Hudson more than understood. She was used to his strange moods and odd hours, and she had, after all, seen him get as excited as any child when presented with her famous raspberry tarts, but there were times she still couldn't help but be somewhat in awe of him.

But what went on at 221b was their business, and hers was running as ordinary and respectable a house as any on the street. Especially because of Mr. Holmes; one never knew when a lord would be dropping by to call on him. It wouldn't do to have the world's most famous detective living in the sort of squalor he remembered from Montague Street.

"Morning, Emily," Mrs. Hudson called as she walked into the kitchen of 220 across the street. "I only wanted to know if I could borrow an egg. I find I'm short. I'm sure it ended up in some experiment or another."

"Of course you may, Martha," her neighbor answered. "It's the least I could do after you sent Dr. Watson over here yesterday to see to Martin's leg. And right after he'd already finished his rounds too!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled and thanked her, grateful that her neighbors still saw fit to lend her ingredients and kitchen supplies since she could so rarely return the favor. She could never be sure which of her utensils had last been used in the morgue of St. Bart's and ingredients disappeared faster than she could use them, a side effect of having a constant stream of dirty little boys trooping through the house on their way to report to Mr. Holmes. But what she did have was a doctor and a detective with far too much time on their hands, and she lent them out as she saw fit. Dr. Watson was always pleased to see to any small medical needs their neighbors might have, and if Mr. Holmes objected to being called for to find lost ladles, well, she merely had to point to the bullet holes in the wall for him to meekly agree. "How is Martin's leg, anyway?" The lad had cut it rather deeply yesterday, though Dr. Watson stitched it up nicely and promised to keep an eye on it.

"It's healing fine," Emily said. "I'm more worried about his shoes! He bled all over them and it's stuck. It'll stain and we can't get him new ones until he grows out of these." She showed Mrs. Hudson where she was attempting to scrub off the bloodstain.

"Oh, you should have treated it right away," Mrs. Hudson said. "But never mind. A solution of hydrogen peroxide will do it. A few drops, then wipe it away with water and they'll be good as new."

Emily looked at her in confusion. "Isn't that the stuff they use to bleach hats?"

"Oh, it's got many uses," Mrs. Hudson said. "It's not the first time I've had to clean up bloodstains!" She turned to see her neighbor looking more than a little horrified, and finally remembered that not every woman on the street had to clean up after her lodgers returned home from a knife fight. Or from the time Mr. Holmes thought to practice fencing and slipped on the pile of papers on the floor, nearly sticking his rapier through his own foot. More fool him, she'd thought at the time, for refusing to take off his slippers before playing with weapons.

"I imagine that comes in useful," Emily finally mumbled, before Mrs. Hudson took herself back home, where she found Dr. Watson coming down the stairs with his arms full of papers. A crash from upstairs told her they were cleaning. This would not be an ordinary result of something so simple as cleaning, but the sitting room of 221b was so messy that cleaning it out created more mess before it was put away again, and somehow one or the other of them always ended up hurting themselves before the ordeal was finished. It never lasted either; she wasn't entirely sure why she bothered.

"Do make sure he doesn't kill himself, Doctor," was all Mrs. Hudson said as she passed by.

"I shall try," the poor fellow answered. "I, er, wouldn't go upstairs right now if I were you."

"Certainly not," Mrs. Hudson said, heading into the kitchen to make her famous raspberry tarts.

A week or so later, Mrs. Hudson was having a visit with Julia Turner from next door when her own lodger, Mr. Potter the junior banker, hurried in looking disheveled. "I'm so sorry, I shall not be in for dinner tonight. I've been called into work most urgently."

"But it's Saturday!" Julia said. "I was making a pot roast."

"I'm so sorry. It seems that the bank has discovered a discrepancy with an account and it appears as if there has been some illegal action." The poor man was so distraught that he actually held the requisite papers in one hand.

"Do let me see," said Mrs. Hudson, and it was a mark of how upset he was that he simply handed them over without a word. Mrs. Hudson surveyed the unknown man's finances and soon realized what was amiss. "There's nothing at all wrong here. The man in question is simply cagey with his assets, moving them from one account to another to hide his true worth. He must be afeared that someone is seeking to claim his wealth. Perhaps a future inheritor, even. It's quite common among the wealthier sorts of gangs. Opium runners and the like."

Stunned silence followed this speech. Julia and Mr. Potter were simply looking at her in disbelief. Mrs. Hudson shrugged her shoulders. "I once saw Mr. Holmes take down an entire ring of smugglers without ever leaving his rooms. All he did was look through their financials." Just because he preferred to solve a case through deduction did not mean he could not reason his way through other means of solving a case. She had been the lucky recipient of his explanation on that occasion because the Doctor had been so bored with it he'd fallen asleep halfway through. Poor fellow had no head for finances.

"Oh," Mr. Potter said. "Well, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, very much indeed. This will make things very simple at the office. You have quite saved the day."

"Oh, it was nothing at all," Mrs. Hudson said. Perhaps she could understand why Mr. Holmes so disliked receiving credit for his cases; Mr. Potter was looking at her as if she could walk on water. "I should be getting back, Julia. I can smell the chemicals from here. If I'm not careful he'll blow up the house."

Some weeks later, Mrs. Hudson, Emily and Julia were out shopping, a large enough trip that they had endeavoured to take the omnibus, which was proving quite a struggle with all their parcels. "Would you rather just get out and walk?" Julia finally asked. "It's a nice day and we've nowhere to be."

"Anything's better than being crowded onto this contraption," Mrs. Hudson agreed. Still, it was no easy feat to walk through the streets with all their bags, and they often took up the entire sidewalk, forcing other passersby to walk around them or push past them. One such of these, a boy no more than eight, caught Mrs. Hudson's eyes by his familiarity.

"Oh, no!" Emily cried out a moment later, looking through her packages. "The smallest package, my mother's ring I had to get resized. It's gone!"

"I wager that lad took it. You shouldn't have been holding that on the outside," Julia said, though Mrs. Hudson thought there was no use in remonstrating her. Poor Emily was nearly distraught with the loss.

She steeled herself and marched up to the lad, who was opening his prize off in a nearby alley. "Ronald Bailey, hand that over. Or I'll tell Mr. Holmes I've caught you pickpocketing again!"

Little Ronald, who was indeed one of Mr. Holmes's Baker Street Irregulars, looked up, immediately contrite. "Mrs. H.! I didn't mean - er, well, I'm sorry." He handed over the bag, looking sad enough that Mr. Hudson found it difficult to be angry.

She did, however, make sure that the ring was still safe in its box. "Well, it's alright now. No harm done."

"You won't tell Mr. Holmes?" Ronald asked hopefully.

"Not this time," she said warningly.

"He didn't say we couldn't pickpocket no more," Ronald said. "Just not you or the Doctor. Sorry I didn't see you."

"Hmm, or himself, I wager."

Ronald looked up at her with a smile. "Mr. Holmes said if any of us could pickpocket him without him telling he'd know he should retire!"

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Well, that's true enough. Off you go, lad. Next time you're at Baker Street I'll have some biscuits for you."

Ronald ran off and Mrs. Hudson hurried back to her friends, handing Emily back her ring. "There you go, dear," she said."

"Oh, Martha! Thank you!" Emily cried. "However did you manage to get it off of him. Those street boys are as vicious as anything!"

Mrs. Hudson laughed out loud. "Vicious? Why, that's Ronald Bailey. He works for Mr. Holmes. Plenty of them do. They're not bad lads."

"They listen to you?" Julia asked.

"Of course! They know Mr. Holmes would be angry if they didn't and besides, I'm always giving them treats. Poor boys need some feeding."

"You know, Martha, between this and helping me clean up the bloodstains on Martin's shoes, well, if I didn't know you knew it all because of Mr. Holmes, I might wonder about you!" Emily said.

"Oh, that's nothing," Julia added. "You should have seen her explain how to hide illegal money laundering in one's financial records. You know everything it would take to be a criminal mastermind, Martha!"

Mrs. Hudson laughed out loud. "Well, sometimes that's what's needed to corral Mr. Holmes and the Doctor, though it's a good thing for him that I'm not! It's all due to him, you know."

"Well, he'd have made a fair criminal himself and no mistake," Julia said. Mrs. Hudson could not argue the fact. She was just as certain that had he turned his attentions to criminal activity rather than fighting it, there was no force that could have stopped him. They all ought to be grateful he was on the side of the law.

Still, the idea of _her _being a criminal mastermind was nothing but funny, and Mr. Holmes thought so too when she told him later.

"Why, Mrs. Hudson, I ought to keep you on retainer, if your skill set has expanded."

"You do keep me on retainer, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson responded calmly. "Or else I'm not sure what it is you're paying me for." At which the Doctor snorted into his soup and she went downstairs, contemplating whether being a criminal mastermind could be any more difficult than what she was already doing.


	22. Chapter 22

Prompt: An Irregular saves the day, from mrspencil

* * *

There is nothing quite so frustrating as a hopeless case, when even I begin to realize that the solution is beyond me. Of course, I let no hint of this show either on my face or in my mannerisms. I should never become the world's foremost detective if Scotland Yard lost what little faith they were gaining in my abilities. I was as yet too new to the city to even contemplate failure; consulted only as a last resort and on severance.

I led the small band of Yarders who had been persuaded to trust me into the dark alley in search of our criminal, a fiend who had been alighting with entire crates from the docks and hiding them so thoroughly they were never seen again. The case had some factors of interest; the thief did not limit himself to one shipping company or one type of cargo, and that anyone could gain access to every dock when each shipping lines controlled their own area and hired their own men spoke of some intelligence on the part of the fellow. As I had only arrived in the city some months before, from a part of England that was very much landlocked, I had yet to make a satisfactory study of the shipping businesses that drove London's economy. A failure, on my part, for now I would almost surely fail to solve this case.

I glanced behind me to see Lestrade checking his gun to ensure it was ready. He gave me a look of some bewilderment, as if wondering why he had allowed me to take the lead. I growled under my breath. He, of all the Yarders, had worked with me the most and seen what successes I had to my name thus far, and still he doubted me! Though I reminded myself those successes were what had led him to come to me for this case in the first place, certainly the largest and widest-ranging of all the ones I had encountered thus far.

It rankled to be in debt to someone who did not even fully believe that I could solve the case, though as we headed further into the dark alley, I realized to my consternation that he was most likely right. There was no place here where someone might hide such bulky cargo, no way anyone could slip unnoticed while moving such large pieces of stolen goods. Blast! It rankled even further that the Yarders should see my failure, the latest of many in this case. I stopped to get my bearings, trying to think my way through how such a crime might be committed in the first place. No one we had spoken to at the docks had seen the man leave with his stolen goods. No one had reported that anyone unusual had been hired lately, perhaps making his way from one shipping company to another. It was the most promising case that had yet come my way, and I was about to fail to solve it!

I saw a few of the Yarders exchange glances that I could read as easily as a book. They thought I was exaggerating my abilities, that I had led them on a merry chase, leaving none the better off for it. "Come," I said, sweeping back past them. I would let on to no weakness; I had discovered that much of the business of crime fighting, and indeed, of life, was in projecting an aura of invincibility. People were so easily fooled; they always believed what was in front of their eyes without question, and if I seemed to know what I was about, they would almost always meekly accept it as truth. Useful for me, as I was loath to admit that I had not a clue as to where to turn next.

_Failure is not failure, Sherlock. Merely a tool to eliminate what is not true, _Mycroft's voice sounded in my head, giving me advice he had often given me when I was frustrated in childhood. Well, today I had no use for my meddling older brother, even in my own head. No matter how correct I knew he was. I had been able to eliminate that alley, and therefore most of this neighborhood, as a possible hiding spot for the criminal and his allies (for he must have allies, for such an elaborate crime). I had also learned that I still had several weaknesses that I must address if I wished to succeed in my chosen career, namely that of my ignorance of the shipping business and the layout of the neighborhoods around the docks. Mycroft would be annoyingly condescending and amused if he knew this; would probably proceed to tell me from memory the exact layout of the area I needed to know as easily as if he was reading from a map.

"Holmes," Lestrade asked, coming up next to me. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Of course," I said, attempting to sound exactly as masterful and condescending as Mycroft would, as if the very idea that I might was ludicrous. "I shall solve it in a day, Lestrade, mark my words."

_Patience, Sherlock. It would not do to get so ahead of yourself._

_Do be quiet, Mycroft_, I retorted to the voice. Deadlines had always helped me push myself to succeed. Now that I had set myself one, I simply had to work it out before that time.

But with no further leads, Lestrade simply led our little band back to the Yard's headquarters, where I managed to take all the case notes before he got to them so I could study them again. Perhaps there was something I had missed. Besides, looking things over again after a time often revealed new information. It was why I frequently stopped any researches I was conducting to play the violin, regardless of how much that dreadful landlady at Montague Street might complain. It is hardly _my_ fault that the best time to do such study is in the early hours of the morning.

A commotion at the door caught my attention and I glared at the interruption. I require silence to concentrate, and I had yet to meet anyone who is capable of it. Even the low hum of conversation at the Yard was enough to throw me off my thought process, and now that they had obviously brought in some other criminal, I should get nothing done. I wondered if I might abscond with the case file to study it in peace in my rooms, though it is hardly quieter there, with the walls as thin as paper and seemingly every one of my neighbors having multiple children under the age of three.

"Caught this one trying to get into the Yard," the beat officer said, holding a grimy boy by the ear. One who I immediately recognized, for why else would one of London's street boys be attempting to get _into _Scotland Yard?

"I know this boy," I said, before Lestrade could give the order to keep him in the gaol for the rest of the day. "He works for me."

"For you?" Lestrade asked. "Doing exactly what? Pickpocketing?" He grinned in amusement, and the rest of the Yard laughed along.

I felt my cheeks flush (why was it such a curse of the pale that I must turn the color of cherries every time I was embarrassed?) and snapped, "No, Lestrade. These boys see all of London without anyone noticing them. I can think of no better way to keep an eye on the criminal classes. You could learn a great deal from them." I certainly had. Pickpocketing had its uses. I had once returned a wealthy lady's antique purse only because I was able to steal it from the thief as he passed me in the British Museum. A simple enough case, though the fee had paid my rent for several months. "What is it, Brian?" I asked the boy.

"Wanted to report to you, Mr. Holmes," Brian O'Malley, the leader of the small army of street orphans I called my Irregulars, answered. "Saw the chap you're after in Whitechapel, I did. Right on the corner of -Street and - Street. Where that pub is, you know the one."

"Indeed, I do," I said, for Whitechapel was an area I had made a study of, as I had not with the docks. Any criminal specialist needed to know his way around that particular neighborhood. "That pub is a den of crime, Lestrade. If we hurry I wager we'll not only find our thief, but others of London's most wanted as well." I handed Brian a shilling. "Good work, lad."

Brian grinned and scurried out. "Thanks, Mr. Holmes!"

"Well, what are you waiting for?" I asked Lestrade. "Come, the game is almost over!" Ah, to be hot on the chase and about to solve a case. There is no feeling like it, not even in my preferred seven-per-cent solution. "The day is saved," I said as we left.

Lestrade grunted. "By a lad not even ten years old! Your theories got us nowhere in the end, did they now, Holmes?"

"I did not see you making use of such a fine resource," I retorted. "Those boys can go anywhere virtually undetected. Did no one on the Yard ever think of that?"

Lestrade looked dutifully ashamed, and I continued, "Now that you _are_ aware of it, might I trouble you not to arrest them as they go about their business? It's dreadful trouble to have to bail my spies out of your gaol every other day."

"That was you?" Lestrade asked. "We were wondering who it was who was posting their bail constantly." His expression twisted as if fighting with himself. "Well, if the lad's tip turns out to be good, I'll do what I can."

"It will be," I promised. "I trained them myself, and I had to do little enough of that. They've yet to fail me." They were considerably better than nearly all of the official police. Perhaps I ought to send them to the academy for training as they grew older. Wouldn't Scotland Yard be peeved about that!


	23. Chapter 23

Prompt: Bad behavior! Holmes and/or Watson has to spend a night in jail for, frankly a ridiculous reason, officer really this wasn't that much of a-, from ThatSassyCaptain

* * *

Of the many times I assisted my friend Sherlock Holmes in solving cases, I always particularly enjoyed those times he was called out of London to work on a case in the countryside. He would disagree with this most strongly, as he had a horror of the countryside and the ease with which is possible to commit a crime there, but I appreciated the chance to leave London, breathe the fresh air and walk among the green fields.

However, I can see my Holmes's point. If any man can be said to have a natural habitat, London was his, and he depended on his intimate knowledge of the city and the network of contacts he had developed there to assist him in his work. In the countryside as nowhere else, he truly worked alone, with none assisting himself save myself. In fact, as the years went on and his reputation began to precede him, we often discovered that the country police were more unwilling than their London counterparts to believe he was capable of solving their cases, their natural country antipathy to outsiders combining with disbelief as to the truth of my stories.

It was during one of these country cases that I awoke in the small room we had taken at the local inn to find Holmes already long gone. This was usual when he was on a case, and I thought little of it as I went down to breakfast, sure that he would appear shortly and tell me of what he had discovered before we went out to continue the investigation. Before I could even begin my morning tea, however, I was approached by a village lad. I assumed Holmes had hired him to deliver me a message and that I should have to cut my breakfast short to meet him at some out of the way location. "What is it?" I asked. "You come from Holmes, do you not?"

"Well, sort of, sir," the boy said. "From Officer Clapham down the village station. He says you're to come quickly, sir."

Perhaps Holmes had already solved the case, I thought. Or, as another thought occurred to me, perhaps he had run across the criminal we were after, alone and as off his guard as he ever was. He should have woken me to accompany him! "Lead on," I said to the boy, and left my breakfast as I hurried after him to the tiny village police station.

Officer Clapham, the lone deputy there, had been dismissive of Holmes's ability to solve the case, though begrudgingly willing enough to grant him freedom of the village. So I was most surprised when I entered the station to find my friend sitting in the tiny gaol, looking for all the world as comfortable as if he was in his own armchair. "Holmes!" I cried. "How did you possibly end up there?"

"Ah, Watson," Holmes said, smiling pleasantly as if he had simply met me unexpectedly during a walk in the park. "Would you be so good as to post my bail and sign me out? Clapham here took a dislike to my activities this morning."

I turned to look at Clapham, who gave Holmes a dark look. "He was walking the moors in the early hours of the morning. Farm folks saw him, thought he was a burglar. Or worse."

"Yes, but you can see for yourself he is not!" I said crossly, signing the book to indicate that I vouched for Holmes's good behavior so he could be let out. "The land is public, is it not? Any man may walk upon it."

"Yes, but he was carrying these!" Clapham said, indicating a pile of spears sitting against the wall. Each was a different height and carried a different pointed head. I had not the slightest idea where Holmes had even acquired them. They certainly had not come from Baker Street; even I should have noticed if he was attempting to carry multiple spears onto the train as we left.

"I needed to see if I could match the mark left in the tree by the murder weapon," Holmes said. "I determined that the weapon was undoubtedly a spear, most likely purchased in the same shop where I found these yesterday. I admit it did take some time to find a suitable tree, which accounts for why I had to walk so far. Most fortunate for the criminal class, and for criminal investigators, to find such an unusual specialty shop here."

In London, such an admission would not have batted an eye, used as Scotland Yard was to his eccentricities. Here, the country deputy simply looked stonily at my friend before saying, "Spear fishing's popular here." Clapham's tone was still suspicious, and I suddenly thought how it would look for Holmes to have a record against him for disturbing the peace of this country village.

"Indeed it is, you have an excellent river that is ideal for that sport," Holmes said. "Perhaps you and I should try our hands at it later today, Watson?"

I had never before heard Holmes express any interest in fishing prior to this statement, and I had no interest myself. Yet I knew when he was on the scent of a case, and the moment he had heard of the popularity of spear fishing he had undoubtedly begun to form a theory. It was not hard to follow his idea; if the murderer had been a good hand with a spear, it seemed likely he was a practitioner of the sport which would give him reason to become skilled at it.

"Not if you're defending yourself before the magistrates, you won't!" Clapham said. "You might be some high and mighty detective in the city, but you come in here with your fancy theories, walking about scaring people, and expect consequences."

Holmes bristled, and I laid a hand on his arm. "Officer, really, this wasn't that much of an...unusual matter. Surely you must allow some freedom for a criminal investigator to investigate as he sees fit? We came here at your invitation."

"Only because the victim's family insisted," Clapham said, before looking at Holmes and apparently deciding that it would be more trouble than it was worth to argue the point further. "Very well. Go about your investigation. I will only ask that you confine it to a decent time of day, Mr. Holmes!"

"Thank you," I said gratefully, while Holmes simply took up his spears and left. I shook my head as I followed him. What a preposterous reason to be pulled from my breakfast!

Holmes seemed entirely unperturbed by the event as I caught up with him. "Well, that interruption has set the investigation back slightly, but we shall make up the time. In fact, it was a lucky occurrence that he happened the mention the river where people spear fish. I suggest we begin our investigation there," he said.

I sighed. "Holmes, I would very much like to finish my breakfast first, as I was forced to leave it to bail you out of prison!"

"Yes, most unfortunate," Holmes said. "Officer Clapham is most dedicated, if overzealous when it comes to innocent men walking about in the early hours of the morning."

"Well," I said after a pause, "At least it happened here rather than in London. I can only imagine the headlines should you have been seen walking the streets with that pile of spears!"

Holmes laughed heartily. "Oh, Watson, in London I know how to disappear. If I did have a need to carry spears about, no one would possibly see me."

This only led me to wonder what possible needs to carry spears about London he might find, and then what else he had been roaming London with that I had not known about. I simply decided to drop the subject altogether as we approached the local pub, as Holmes did at least buy me a meat pie for my trouble in missing breakfast. He chattered away about the different markings left by the heads of various spears as we walked, and I had no doubt that the case should be solved by the end of the day - no doubt to Officer Clapham's consternation! I smiled to myself, already thinking of how I should write this story for eventual publication. It would undoubtedly be an amusing addition to Holmes's public record!


	24. Chapter 24

Prompt: A Christmas miracle, from sirensbane

A/N: Welcome to another prompt that could have been sweet and that I turned into heavy angst. Warning ahead for discussions of the general devastation of war, nothing too horribly graphic but, you know, there because WWI was generally terrible.

If you know anything about WWI you can probably guess where this is going.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was not a sentimental man.

He believed in what he could observe, what he could see and hear with his own senses, when he had never trusted anyone else's save his brother's. He believed even more in what could be told from a good set of statistics.

Numbers didn't try to pretend to be something they were not. Statistics told the bare basics of a story, and a rational, intelligent observer should be able to marry those statistics with other facts at their disposal to paint a complete picture of the world.

Mycroft knew numbers. He understood exactly how they worked, what they would allow and what they would not. When a young, idealistic secretary or an ambitious Cabinet member had to be told that their plan would not work because the numbers could not make it work, they often countered with, "Well, if the numbers did _this_ instead, we could." It had always fallen to Mycroft to remind them that the numbers _did not _do that, and that they _would not. _There was simply no use in wishing the numbers to be anything but what they were.

Numbers, he had to remind his staff often, did not lie.

Casualties: Battle of the Marne (6-12 September, 1914)

13,000 British

250,000 French

250,000 German

Casualties: Battle of the Aisne (12-15 September, 1914)

5000 British

10,000 German

French: Unknown

Casualties: Battle of Ypres (19 October-22 November, 1914)

58,000 British

86,000 French

135,000 German

Mycroft only had to hear a number once to remember it. His mind did the calculations automatically.

500,000 men killed at the Marne alone

90,000 British casualties since July

5 months of war

Mycroft Holmes was not an emotional man. He possessed little of the softer emotions, and numbers asked for none. They possessed none.

It was said that most men found it easier to comprehend, and mourn, the death of one than of millions. A million was just a number. One was your son, your brother, your husband.

Mycroft watched as one of his secretaries took a call from the war office only last week and collapsed on his desk in sobs as they informed him they had managed to find the body of his only son from No Man's Land, months after the last inches of land had been won or lost.

90,000 times over, to 90,000 families.

Mycroft thought bitterly that he was right. Numbers possessed none of the softer emotions.

Numbers, he realized for the first time in his long career, were cruel.

Cruel, and unrelenting. Every day brought new numbers, numbers Mycroft would be expected to glean some new information from. Cruel as they were, they were better than the casualty lists. Mycroft knew the numbers of the dead; he didn't need to know the names.

Only one. He asked to be brought the section of the casualty lists which listed the W's before it was sent for publication. He had an agreement with his brother that should Dr. Watson's name appear on the lists, he would hear it from Mycroft directly and not from the dreaded telegram.

He told himself it was a simple matter of repaying years of loyal service to allow his brother this one kindness. Every time he breathed a sigh of relief that Dr. Watson's name was not there, he knew that perhaps he could understand how one might be more than 90,000.

By Christmas 1914 Mycroft knew without a doubt that Germany would win. It was a matter of numbers; theirs vs the Allies. Germany had more, the Allies less, and fewer every day. He looked at the facts and the numbers and knew before any hint escaped the Tsar's palace that Russia would fall, either to Germany or to their own revolutionaries. Without Russia's troops, it was only a matter of time until all of Europe was overrun by the Axis. The only solution both obvious and utterly impossible.

The United States was the key. The only way for the numbers to work was if the United States added its strength, its numbers, to the Allies.

But Wilson was remaining stubbornly committed to neutrality, and it would take nothing short of a miracle to bring the United States into the war.

Mycroft Holmes did not believe in miracles.

If anyone ever had, he doubted they did anymore.

* * *

Christmas Day 1914 was a somber affair. Few had forgotten the way they had gaily assured one another that the war would be over by Christmas. Mycroft had not altered his routine in fifty years, and war was no exception. He spent Christmas Day, as he spent all his days, at the Diogenes, the only club that remained open on the holiday for the benefit of the unsociable men who preferred their Christmases spent in solitude.

Almost solitude. Perhaps he was simply getting older, but something had convinced Mycroft to invite his brother for Christmas Day, to take advantage of the Diogenes' excellent Christmas dinner.

"We never celebrate Christmas," Sherlock said on arrival. "If we truly can call it celebrating, this year."

"Come, Sherlock, I've not seen you for two years," Mycroft said. "Since you spent all that time in America." He had, thankfully, shaven off that dreadful goatee. "I've had precious little time for anything but the war."

"Mycroft, the last thing I wish to discuss is the war," Sherlock said forcefully. "At all. It is all anyone talks of, and if I am to spend Christmas here, at least allow me to sit in peace and tell you about my bees. Perhaps we can deduce your fellow club members, as we used to do."

"Do forgive me," Mycroft said, after a pause. Sherlock was rarely so emotional. "It is all I have done for the last five months. I find I cannot put it aside."

"Do you think I can, so easily?" Sherlock asked. He paused. "If I go out to the cliffs on a quiet night I can sometimes hear the guns from France. Watson writes of the most dreadful conditions. I know we thought the turn of this new century meant the end of an age but-"

"We did not think it would end in iron and blood," Mycroft finished softly.

"Precisely," Sherlock said. He studied Mycroft closely. "You look dreadful, Mycroft. You really should retire."

"Sherlock, if I could not leave all the years before this how can I go now?" Mycroft was not prone to false modesty. He knew he was indispensable because he had made himself so. "We would not have a chance."

"Do we?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft could not, and did not answer. He did not need to. Sherlock could read the answer in his face. "Must you ask me that?" he asked. "There are many factors, Sherlock. They all must come together in the right way. In that respect, there is always a chance, even a small one."

It might be true. Mathematically, it could be, if realistically the chance was so small as to be nearly impossible. "You sound hopeless," Sherlock said.

Mycroft did not answer, grateful for once for the interruption of the page boy with a telegram. He read it, and then read it again, unable to believe what he was reading.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "Mycroft, what is it? Is it Watson?" This last was said fearfully, in a tone of voice Mycroft had never once heard from his brother's lips.

"No," Mycroft said slowly. He almost could not believe it, but the report was straight from the front. It _had _to be true. "It is a report from the front. All over the front. Sherlock...the fighting has stopped."

"What?" Sherlock asked, taking the telegram from Mycroft and reading it himself. "A truce? Who called for that?"

"No one," Mycroft said, in a daze. "No one. Well, the men, on both sides, I suppose. The Germans, and our troops simply...put down their weapons."

"Exchanges of trinkets, meeting in No Man's Land to sing Christmas carols, allowing the troops to find and bury their dead," Sherlock read aloud from the telegram. He laughed aloud, the sound ringing out unnaturally in the Strangers Room. "Mycroft, it says they've organized football matches! Where is this happening?"

"All over the Western front," Mycroft said, reading the list of locations given in the telegram. An army - no, both armies - simply refusing to fight. Climbing out of the trenches to meet on No Man's Land. Called such because no man who climbed onto it could live. Until now.

Facts, numbers, cost expenditures; nothing Mycroft had ever seen had led him to this. He doubted anything could have. A Christmas truce. All the thousands of men on both sides, who had lost friends and comrades at each other's hands, all over the front, spontaneously deciding to lay down their arms for the holiday? It was unheard of, impossible. He sat down heavily, dazed.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "Are you alright?"

Mycroft was silent for a moment, thinking of the tallied casualty figures he received nearly every day. As long as this truce went on, he would not receive any more. "Football," he said. "They're playing football in No Man's Land. The English, the Germans…enemies one day, comrades the next." It was enough to bring a lump even to Mycroft's throat, and he swallowed quickly. "I have never seen anything like this in all my years of service."

Sherlock smiled. "It is the season for miracles, is it not, brother?"

"You, Sherlock, believing in miracles?" Mycroft asked gently.

"Well, when what I see and observe tells me there is one, then it must be true," Sherlock said. "Even you cannot deny that."

Numbers did not lie. The numbers of troops that had laid down their arms, totally separate from each other; that was not a lie. The number of places this had taken place, simultaneously but with no coordination, that was not a lie either.

Mycroft Holmes had never believed in miracles.

He had also never denied the truth.

The truth was this could not be anything else.

"Perhaps, Sherlock, we will see an end to this war after all," Mycroft said. "And on earth, peace and good will toward men."

"Amen, Mycroft," Sherlock murmured.

* * *

A/N: Casualty figures are as accurate as I could get them. There's still a lot of discrepancy and unknowns; I took the numbers from the era of the First World War if I could find them, as that's what Mycroft would have had.

The Christmas truce was, of course, a real thing, during which troops on both sides all over the Western Front simply laid down their arms, called a truce and refused to fight. It's probably the most famous anecdote to come out of WWI and one of the few real-life Christmas miracles I could think of.


	25. Chapter 25

Prompt: Christmas dinner at 221b, from PowerOfPens

A/N: A very Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone!

* * *

Christmas Day was always a quiet, peaceful day for myself and my fellow lodger, Sherlock Holmes. Neither of us had much interest in going out and making merry, or indeed, received many invitations to do so. Such friends as I had all had their own families with whom they celebrated the holiday, and Holmes had, by his own admission, no friends other than myself. Though this last was not entirely true, as we could usually expect Inspector Lestrade to stop by on Christmas evening for a late brandy.

But our own holiday was quiet, and after a late morning, Holmes and I sat down to Mrs. Hudson's magnificent Christmas feast. I had often remarked that she prepared Christmas dinner as if she were entertaining a particularly large family instead of just Holmes and myself, but as it was always delicious we certainly never said anything to dissuade her. "I do think Mrs. Hudson has outdone herself," I remarked to Holmes.

"Yes, indeed," Holmes said, though he rarely noticed anything he was served for dinner. Perhaps the mere fact that he was eating this particular meal without complaint was compliment enough. "I expect there will be dessert as well," he added.

I could not help but laugh a little. "You sound hopeful," I said. Few people other than myself were aware that Holmes had a monstrously strong sweet tooth, though he rarely allowed himself to indulge it as he would have liked.

"I have rarely had as good a Christmas pudding as the one our esteemed landlady makes," Holmes said. "And her raspberry tarts are justly famous."

Mrs. Hudson had been all but buried in raspberry tarts for the entire month of December, making batches for the Irregulars, our neighbors, the Yarders and Holmes and I. Yet somehow I expected I would see a plate of them appear tonight alongside the Christmas pudding. Mrs. Hudson knew they were my friend's favorite, and it was ordinarily a trial to get him to eat regularly.

"Did I hear someone say raspberry tarts?"

I looked down toward my feet in response to the high-pitched, squeaky voice. "Why, Basil! I thought it was you." I leaned down so our second resident consulting detective and his friend could climb upon my hand, and then set them down on the table.

"If anyone should notice me sharing table space with two mice," Holmes muttered to himself.

Basil, however, grinned. "They would think little of it, Mr. Holmes! In fact, I doubt they should even notice. Do I not always say, Dawson, that ordinary men _see_ but do not _observe_."

"I am the one who says that!" Holmes said indignantly, as I hid my laugh with a cough.

"Well, then, you certainly know it is true," Basil said. "Just as so few believe what they see, despite the evidence of their own eyes! I doubt anyone would believe it even if they did observe us, am I right, Dawson?"

"Quite right, Basil," Dawson said, before giving me a shyly hopeful look. "So, er, are there going to be raspberry tarts?"

"Yes, I expect so," I said. "Christmas pudding as well. But until then, please, join us for dinner. We would be honored."

"We would?" Holmes mouthed at me. I made a shushing motion at him; the two little mice were obviously enjoying the holiday as well. They had both put on better finery than they usually wore, Dawson in a blue suit with a nice waistcoat and Basil in a fine black one, the match for any two London gentlemen save for their size. It was quite striking; like Holmes, Basil rarely appeared in anything other than his dressing gown or else his traveling cloak, and I had not seen him before in so celebratory an outfit.

"Why, thank you, Doctor," Basil said, seating himself and Dawson in front of my bread dish, on which I put some small cuts of goose and one of Mrs. Hudson's excellent potatoes.

"This is most delicious, Dr. Watson!" Dawson said, now chewing on an entire pea that was about the size of his head.

"Yes, I daresay your landlady could teach ours a thing or two," Basil added.

"She has gone to visit her sister," Dawson informed us. "And left us to our own devices for Christmas."

"I understand," Holmes said. "Whenever Mrs. Hudson abandons us we do a great deal of eating out, do we not, Watson?"

"Well, I would hardly call it abandoning us to visit her family, Holmes!" I said.

"Well, I do," Basil said grumpily. "Though it has been to our benefit on this occasion, you are quite right, Dawson."

"Oh, I quite forgot some wine for you. Do forgive me," I said. I found a few spare thimbles in my doctor's bag and managed to pour from our wine bottle, which now seemed giant in size, only with difficulty.

"Quite alright, Doctor," Basil said, taking his thimble gracefully. "Might I say a toast to a Merry Christmas?"

"And a Happy New Year!" Dawson added gaily.

"Indeed," I said. "I do hope so."

"Ah, and there are our raspberry tarts, I believe," Holmes said as Mrs. Hudson entered the room with two trays. Both Basil and Dawson looked up with interest, their tiny noses sniffing the air. Mrs. Hudson settled the trays upon the table, where one was indeed her famous raspberry tart. The other was the expected Christmas pudding.

"Thank you, my good lady!" Basil said, leaping up and sweeping a dramatic bow. Mrs. Hudson, long used to our little fellow lodgers, looked pleased with his reaction and gave Holmes a pointed look as she left.

"Ah, she will expect me to give as good a show the next time she makes her raspberry tarts," he said.

"You are making him look bad," I whispered to Basil.

"Ha! It is a capital mistake to make an enemy of your landlady," Basil said. "I would have thought you knew that, Mr. Holmes."

"I most certainly do," Holmes retorted. "My last landlady and I got on dreadfully badly."

"Well, Basil, you do have to wonder why Mrs. Judson continues to tolerate you," Dawson began. He stopped, however, when Basil took an entire raspberry tart and set it down in front of them. I, meanwhile, turned my attention to Mrs. Hudson Christmas pudding. Soon, we were all silent as we enjoyed our selection of desserts. I was rather impressed when Basil and Dawson managed to finish off an entire raspberry tart between them; Mrs. Hudson did not make small desserts. Holmes, perhaps in an attempt to outdo them, had two, which would no doubt please Mrs. Hudson greatly.

"Now that we have finished with Christmas dinner, I have a request," Basil said. He pulled out his violin, which I only noticed he had with him for the first time now, and said, "Would you play a duet with me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Do you mean to tell me you can play the violin?" Holmes asked incredulously.

"Oh, yes!" Dawson said. "Very well, too, don't you, Basil?"

Holmes picked himself up and found his Stradivarius on the settee. "Well, we shall see who is the better."

"Holmes, he said a duet, not a competition," I said.

"Yes, of course." Holmes set his bow to the strings and asked of Basil, "Do you know Brahms?"

"Certainly," Basil said, lifting his tiny violin to his chin. "On three."

It was certainly the most unusual concert I have ever attended. The size of Basil's violin meant that its sound was impossibly high, yet it was perfectly tuned and melded with the deeper voice of Holmes's Stradivarius as if it was meant to. Dawson sat at the edge of the table next to my armchair, his eyes closed in enjoyment and his feet swinging in time to the music. When they were finished, I applauded loudly. "Wonderful!" I said. "Really, very well done."

"Thank you, Doctor," Basil said, taking a short bow. "Have you any requests?"

"Well, it is Christmas," Dawson began.

"Yes, it is. Excellent observation, my dear fellow," Basil said.

Dawson shot his friend a dark look, one that reminded me so much of the look I had often given Holmes that I had to laugh. "I believe he was about to ask for a Christmas carol or two," I said.

"Yes, exactly," Dawson said.

"Very well," Basil said. "Come, Mr. Holmes, on three." My friend looks quite perturbed to find himself quite literally playing second fiddle to a mouse, but when they began the first strains of Silent Night, they once again melded their instruments perfectly. What a joy is well-played music!

Though it really was no less enjoyable to watch Holmes take directions from a mouse. I could only wonder what Lestrade would have to say if he came by!


	26. Chapter 26

Prompt: Unique Interpretations of Christmas carols, from cjnwriter

* * *

My friend, Sherlock Holmes, lived a life of the most confirmed bachelorhood and bohemianism. His coldly logical nature meant that emotions were foreign to him and all attachments abhorrent.

It would therefore surprise anyone who knew of him only from my stories in the _Strand_ that he was surprisingly skilled at dealing with children. At first I thought, watching him with the little band of street urchins he termed his Baker Street Irregulars, that he had trained himself in dealing with children much as he had engaged in the study of different types of cigarette ash or the treads of different shoes. However, I soon realized he had a talent for this that at times surpassed his manner with adults of his own class and age. I believe that he found the honesty and directness of children refreshing, as they engaged in little dissimulation and were usually willing to discuss all manner of interesting things not often suited for polite conversation, such as poisons and the best pickpocketing methods.

I had often watched Holmes engage with his Irregulars with a stab of wistfulness. My Mary and I had not been able to have a child before her untimely passing, and I had thought to myself on several occasions that a child would have been a great comfort, someone to carry on her memory. Alas, it was not to be. As the years went on , however, I regretted nearly as much that I had also missed the chance to name Holmes godfather, as I surely would have. He would, I believe, have been an attentive and devoted godfather, though perhaps the religious nature of the position would have placed him falsely.

I digress. Christmas, with its focus on treats and gifts, was naturally a favorite of any child and Holmes's Irregulars were no exceptions. They seemed to appear all the more often during the month of December, always leaving with biscuits and tarts from Mrs. Hudson, who indulged them greatly. "I shall not be able to induce them to work if Mrs. Hudson insists on spoiling them," Holmes said one evening after a veritable feast had been laid out downstairs for the Irregulars by our estimable landlady. We could hear the excited shouts and squeals as the little boys saw the food laid out for them.

"You shall," I said. "They look up to you greatly, Holmes." More than one had expressed the desire to become a detective upon reaching adulthood. Though I was more gratified by the assertion of one Ronald Perkins, seven years old, that he would rather be a doctor. "Like Dr. Watson!" He'd said, grinning a gap-toothed grin.

"Perhaps," Holmes said. "In any case, Watson-"

"GOD BLESS YOU, MERRY GENTLEMEN, LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY!"

The singing of a great many small children is much more akin to shouting, and I smiled knowingly as the entire complement of the Baker Street Irregulars climbed the stairs to our sitting room, still singing.

"Have the merry gentlemen sneezed recently?" Holmes asked softly.

"I told you those weren't the words!" Tim Tybolt, second in command after Wiggins, cried.

"Sure they are," little Ronald, who wanted to be a doctor, said.

"It's 'get rest, you Merry gentlemen," Melinda said, with an air of great patience.

"That doesn't make any sense, Melinda," Ronald said. Sam, the youngest, merely took a breath and began singing again.

"GET DRESSED YOU MERRY GENTLEMEN-"

"No, no, that's not it!" Melinda said.

"What?" Sam asked. "They're getting dressed for Christmas!"

"It's 'get rest,'" Melinda said. "Because they've got to get rest before Christmas, don't they?"

"Getting dressed up for Christmas makes more sense," Sam said stubbornly.

"Does not!" Melinda said, and before long we had a veritable war being waged on our hearth rug over the correct lyrics to Christmas carols.

Holmes attempted to get the children's attention several times before he finally picked up his violin and scraped the bow across the strings so it made the most dreadful shriek. The children all clapped their hands over their ears and looked up at him indignantly.

"I merely wanted to settle this argument before it ended in bloodshed," Holmes began.

"Ah, I wouldn't have let them fight in your sitting room, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins said. The leader of the Irregulars was a lanky boy approaching the age of thirteen. I imagined Holmes would be searching for a position for him soon, as was his wont when Irregulars grew too old to carry on in the type of jobs he needed them for.

"How does the song go, Mr. Holmes?" Ronald asked. "You said you'd tell us."

"I certainly shall," Holmes said. "It is 'God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen.'"

The Irregulars all looked dubiously at each other. "Well, that doesn't make any sense," Tim said bluntly.

"It doesn't even mean anything," Melinda added.

The Irregulars, as children so often do, had pointed out the obvious so many adults miss. I had heard the song so many times that I had ceased to wonder about its meaning, yet undoubtedly I had once wondered myself what it meant. It certainly did not make any sense to our modern ears. Perhaps it had once, at some long ago point in history.

Holmes was obviously thinking the same thing as I was. "I believe, Ronald, it is a wish for God to grant you a restful and happy Christmas."

"Well, then why wouldn't they just say that?" Sam asked, and I could not help but laugh. Even Holmes allowed an amused smirk to cross his face.

"Well, it is a very old song. Undoubtedly the language has changed since then," he said. He almost certainly could have explained how exactly the language had changed, but seeing the Irregulars' faces lose all interest he wisely cut his explanation short. "You have your biscuits and your answer, I shall expect you back next week with your reports."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes!" The children chorused, scampering out and thundering down the stairs.

"You know, Holmes, they are right. The song would make much more sense if it were about getting dressed or getting rest before the holiday," I remarked.

"Perhaps," Holmes said. "Watson, pass me my violin. All this discussion of Christmas carols has given me the urge to play."

* * *

A/N: bonus points if any of you are Cabin Pressure fans and caught the reference


	27. Chapter 27

Prompt: Dragons, from sirensbane

A/N: This is an idea I've had for AGES and I'm beyond thrilled to find a prompt that I could fit it into. Yes, I know, I'm back in WWI but THERE'S A REASON I PROMISE

* * *

It was in the dark, stormy days of early winter 1918 that I found myself at last aboard a steamer to cross the Channel back to England. It had taken several weeks past the official end of the war for me to be released from service, as I had taken it as my duty to assist with sending the wounded back home before I could think of joining them. I would be in France still, for there were more wounded returning from the front each day, even after the fighting had long since stopped, but the British Army, mindful of my advancing years, had given me leave to return home in time for Christmas. That, at least, I was grateful for. When the date of the armistice was announced, I had finally felt secure enough to promise Holmes that I would return for Christmas, and I intended to keep my promise.

It had been a long, arduous journey, first by truck out of the makeshift field hospital which had been my personal front for the long years of the war, then by troop train into Paris and then a crowded, passenger train out again. I had barely room to sit, filled as the train was with returning troops of all nationalities as well as displaced refugees from France and Belgium seeking a friendly place to settle. Now, I had only to cross the Channel and take one last train into London before I could call my service complete. London! The mere name evoked memories too strong for me to overcome. Though I was not naive enough to think that London had was unchanged. None of us had survived this war unchanged; as I looked out on the rough waves of the Channel, I knew I was returning to a very different world than the one I had left. I had hardly a thought as to what the future would bring, and felt very sorry for the men younger than I, who had survived the horror of the last five years and now would need to rebuild the world they had hardly a chance to know. My time was over, and my own personal future likely held nothing but a few years of retirement in Sussex Downs, where Holmes had kindly asked me to join him, and which I had gladly accepted.

I soon became aware that I was not alone in my contemplation of the waves. A young man who had been sitting on a deck chair suddenly stood up, put something away in the pocket of his army jacket, and stood next to me, an expression of consternation upon his face. I studied my new companion surreptitiously; a small mustache graced a lean, handsome face with neatly combed hair and kindly eyes. The fellow noticed me next to him and smiled. "Forgive me for disturbing you. I am only having some difficulty with something I have been trying to write, and I find I need a break."

I nodded. "A letter home?" I asked politely.

"No," the fellow said. "More a sort of...story. It was something I did to pass the time, in the trenches, and I thought to continue it but I don't know. Perhaps I have lost my inspiration now that this is all over."

I considered this. The war had been the worst horror the world had yet seen, but as a writer myself I could understand how one could find inspiration in it, if only as a drive to escape or attempt to make sense of the carnage. I gazed upon the fellow with new interest. Of all the professions I have worked at in my life, I had spent much of my time with either soldiers or doctors, and of course criminal investigators. I had rarely had the chance to spend much time with other writers, save my literary agent, Doyle. Perhaps my little stories had not been enough to grant me entrance to the great literary societies of London that I remembered, which had included the likes of Wilde, Barrie, Stevenson and Wells. In truth, I had not even considered myself among their ranks. I only wrote up accounts of true events, and the talent for making up an entire tale was not mine. Still, I held my hand out to the young man next to me. "I quite understand. I am something of a writer myself. Dr. John Watson."

The young solider shook my head and then his eyes widened in recognition. "Sir, you are not _the _Dr. Watson? The biographer of Sherlock Holmes?"

I laughed gently at the awe in his expression. "Indeed I am, though that was many years ago."

"Why, it is an honor! I grew up on your stories, sir. My brother and I spent our childhood playing detective! It was a great argument among us which of us was to be Holmes. I cannot believe I have had the fortune to meet you!"

I could not be other than gratified at finding such an appreciative audience; for it was usually Holmes who received the accolades between us. "Which of you usually won?" I asked.

"I did," the young man answered. "I am the elder, so I could assign roles as I wanted. Though I doubt I did him justice. Though in fact, it was your stories, among others, that gave me the idea that I could write myself."

"Do you write mysteries as well?" I asked. In the years since I had published stories of Holmes, many other such detective stories had become popular, though I remained secretly proud that many people told me mine were superior.

"No," my new companion answered. "I write more fantastical stories. I am fascinated by the ancient Anglo-Saxon epics, Beowulf and the like. Stories of magic and other worlds, and knights and quests."

"Oh," I said. "Rather like _Wonderland_, or the Baum series?"

"Something like that," the young man answered. "To tell the truth, I found they did not make much sense and were more suited to children. If one is to create a whole secondary world, it should make at least as much sense as ours. One must know how the languages have developed, and what sort of technology the people use. That way one does not get confused as to why a man can be created out of tin yet an entire land uses thatching on their roofs. I would write something much more akin to the great Arthurian epics, or perhaps the Norse _Nibelungenlied, _the Ring cycle."

I frowned with interest. "I have never considered that before," I said. Though the idea was interesting. Holmes and I had spent many happy hours at the opera, where those same Norse stories were popular for adaptation.

"Perhaps that is my own interest. I have always been very much interested in language," my new friend said. "In fact, I am hoping to gain a position teaching Old English Literature at university. One must have a career if one hopes to write."

"Yes, indeed. I suspect Holmes would enjoy meeting you," I said. "He has also always been interested in ancient languages. Though I am not sure he would approve of writing fantasy. He was most disparaging of the Wonderland stories when I read them."

The young soldier next to me smiled. "Yes, well, few consider such fantastical stories suitable for adults, though at one time any story that did not contain magic would have been thought tedious." He smiled impishly. "Besides, I have always thought no story is complete without a dragon or two."

I had a sudden image of myself and Holmes facing a dragon, armed with swords. My new friend was correct, dragons certainly did make for exciting stories. "I shall certainly be interested to see what you will write in future," I said. "I have no doubt that you shall find your inspiration again. Take that as advice from an experienced writer. No bout of writer's block lasts forever."

"No, I am sure it does not. In fact, now that we are speaking of dragons, I feel I might be on to something." I recognized the itch to write when an idea is upon one, and I decided to take my leave so my young friend could get back to his worlds of magic and dragons.

"It was very nice to meet you, might I ask your name?" I asked.

"Tolkien, sir," the young soldier answered. "John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Lancashire Fusiliers."


	28. Chapter 28

Prompt: "Most unladylike, Mrs. Watson!" from Winter Winks 221

* * *

It was in the early afternoon, right after John had gone out on his midday rounds, when my maid announced that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was waiting in the parlor. I at once dropped my mending and went to meet him. We had seen little of him since our wedding, not out of any desire not to, but simply because we had been so busy and caught up in our own little world of domestic bliss that other considerations fell by the wayside, unfortunately. I had been intending to suggest to John that we should invite our friends to dinner, though I had lately given up on that idea once I discovered that he had few friends himself save for Mr. Holmes. I hardly thought Mr. Holmes would enjoy an evening spent with my friends, and so had not said anything. Though I had still intended to mention to John that he ought to spend more time with his friend; after he had figured so prominently in the story of our meeting, I had no wish to see him disappear from our lives. It appeared now as if our fears had been for naught.

"Mr. Holmes!" I said. "Welcome. I am so glad you've come. I've been meaning to send John to ask you to dinner."

"Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Watson," Mr. Holmes said with a charming smile. "I see you have been engaged with some mending of socks, do not allow me to keep you. Is Watson in?"

I had to laugh, for I had indeed been mending socks. "You are quite correct, Mr. Holmes. No, unfortunately, he isn't. He's at his midday rounds. Shall I tell him you called? It will be some time before he returns."

"No, no, do not trouble yourself," Mr. Holmes said, though he looked more than slightly disappointed. I wondered if he had thought to find John always at the ready, as he had been when he lived at Baker Street. John had told me his friend was more than a little eccentric in his ways, though I had seen little evidence of this so far. Mr. Holmes was a perfect gentleman to me, though I knew from reading John's stories (so far, all unpublished save the story of their meeting) that this was not always the case! "I merely wished to see if you and he wished to accompany me to a concert tonight. I have seats for a new rendition of Mozart. His great symphony in G minor, I believe. If you would be so good as to have him send a telegram to Baker Street with his answer when he returns…?"

"Oh, you do not need to wait for that. I can tell you we have nothing on for tonight and shall be delighted to attend," I said.

"Excellent, I shall be here at seven precisely," he answered, before taking his leave. I beamed to myself, happy that John should have the chance to spend some time with his friend. I had never been to a concert before, and found myself quite looking forward to it.

* * *

"I do not know why I agreed to come!" I said in anguish to John later. It had occurred to me, not long after Mr. Holmes left, that I had led a most sheltered life and was not accustomed to being out in society. Certainly not among the grand ladies and gentlemen who were sure to attend such a concert. "I have hardly anything to wear!"

"The gown you are wearing is lovely," John said, looking quite perturbed at my state of mind.

"Oh, perhaps, but I know little of music," I said.

"Did you not learn to play the piano at boarding school?" John asked.

"Yes, of course," I said. "It is expected of women training to be governesses."

"Well, then, of course you know something of music. More than I do, I'm certain," he answered.

Dear John is so patient and kind, but as Mr. Holmes says, he is hardly observant. "Yes, but I know only enough to play the instrument. I certainly do not know much of the great composers and the workings of a great piece like the one we are to see. And you've always said Mr. Holmes is such a great student of music." It was expected of women to play an instrument, yet as in most things, what we were taught was far less than what men were taught in the same subject.

"So he is, when he decides to actually play that blasted violin instead of scraping the bow across it," John said, though the fondness in his tone belied his words. "I assure you, Mary, he does not attend these concerts to pick apart the musical performance."

"No?" I asked.

"Well," John said. "Perhaps he does, but only when it does not meet with his approval. No, he attends concerts because there is no greater opportunity for the trained observer and deductive reasoner than a concert with all of London society in attendance. As he says." He smiled. "Believe me, Mary, he will be the most entertaining thing about tonight."

"Ah, Mrs. Watson. That is a lovely gown. It comes from _ and Sons, does it not?" Mr. Holmes arrived in a four-person cab, dressed resplendently in black. "I took the liberty of bringing along two extra pairs of opera glasses for you." He handed us two small pairs of opera glasses, which I am somewhat ashamed to say, made me smile like a child.

"I have always wanted to use a pair of these!" I said.

John chuckled fondly and even Mr. Holmes smiled. We arrived at the same time as what appeared to be most of London, and I took John's arm as we went inside. I immediately felt a trifle self-conscious, as my best gown seemed drab compared to the finery some of the grand ladies wore.

"Ah, there is the Countess of Rothes. Do you know, I returned that very diamond she is wearing to her after her stepson made off with it. It only narrowly escaped a long sea voyage to Australia," Mr. Holmes said.

"Did you really?" I asked, looking at the woman in question. On her head was a tiara which appeared extremely top-heavy, so large was the diamond in its center.

"Oh, yes. You see how she is avoiding my gaze? She knows I know of her perfidious stepson and wants nothing to do with me," Mr. Holmes said. He smiled languidly, and I had no doubt that he knew secrets about most of these people they would not like to see made public. Still, I gazed after the Countess, contemplating that if any of the women of my acquaintance had had such a stepson, she would be whispered about and thought ill of. Wealth went a long way toward hiding one's family sins, it seemed.

We made our way to our seats, where Mr. Holmes trained his opera glasses on the stage. "Ah, Redson is back. You see, Watson?" He pointed out the man in the first violin chair. "He has a most peculiar way of holding his violin. Likely the result of a childhood wrist injury, do you not agree, Watson? In any case, it produces the most unusual sound and I believe it galls his fellow violinists that he is made first chair because of it." This last speech was given to me, as I had no doubt that John had heard it before. Yet I appreciated Mr. Holmes's kind attention to me, for I was feeling rather overwhelmed by it all.

This feeling soon passed, for I was lost in the music once it started, and I quite forgot I had ever been nervous. We were all one once we were listening, and I considered that music is the one joy that appeared to be shared by all humanity. We are all equal when listening to a beautiful composition, and I was quite disappointed when the intermission began.

"I think I would like to get some air," I said, for it had grown very hot in the concert hall.

"Allow me to accompany you," Mr. Holmes said graciously, offering me his arm. John waved us on; I knew that he would find the crowded halls difficult with his leg, and was grateful Mr. Holmes had seen fit to see to me.

"Thank you for a very nice evening," I said to Mr. Holmes. "I have never attended such a concert before."

"It is my pleasure," he answered.

"My husband says you attend mostly for the opportunity to watch your fellow concert-goers," I said conspiratorially.

To my delight, Mr. Holmes laughed aloud. "There is no better school for observation and deductive reasoning than a mass of people all attending the same event."

"That is exactly what he said you would say!"

"Well, Mrs. Watson, let us take that lady over there," Mr. Holmes said, pointing to a lady of middle age wearing a large feather in her hair that stuck straight up to a point. "That ostrich feather is no mere decoration; it is her point of pride. You see it is not so straight as it could be, and that its feathers are wrinkled and out of sorts?"

"Yes," I said.

"We can deduce that the feather is not one she purchased, but one that was given to her by someone, and that this fellow, whoever he is, told her that he killed the bird himself. I would guess a brother, as there is no ring which would indicate marriage on her finger. Yet the quality of the feather suggests that the bird was not as prime a specimen as one would hope, and has a thinness of quality that is associated with captive birds rather than wild ones. One may only come into contact with a captive ostrich in one place: a zoo. So we can deduce that, instead of having bagged a bird himself, the fellow simply plucked one from an unsuspecting bird at a zoo and has fooled his sister into wearing that as her prize!"

I could not help it; after his speech I burst into loud laughter, letting go of Mr. Holmes's arm in the process. The image of someone sticking their hand into an ostrich's cage and then bequeathing the result to their sister to wear in her hair was too funny to resist, and several bystanders looked scandalized in my direction.

Including, I realize too late, Mrs. Forrester. "Most unladylike, Mrs. Watson!" she said, coming up next to me and taking my arm. Her tone was horrified. "Where is your husband?"

My former employer must not have realized I was not alone. "He is back at our seats," I said, masking my laughter into a contrite expression.

"I have accompanied Mrs. Watson out for some air," Mr. Holmes said smoothly, appearing at my side.

"May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" I said, having finally got my breath back. "He is my husband's closest friend."

"Charmed," Mrs. Forrester said. "Well, do enjoy the rest of the concert, my dear." She looked rather disappointed she could not deliver me back to my husband, perhaps with an admonishment about my behavior.

"She means well," I said. "She has always rather looked after me, alone in the world as I was. Even though I was her employee."

Mr. Holmes was silent for a moment. "I do hope," he finally said, "that you no longer consider yourself alone in the world."

"Not at all," I said, taking his arm again. "I am far richer than I ever thought to be. Tonight has been most entertaining."

"I am glad," he answered. "Though I will refrain from making you laugh again until we have taken our seats, when I will tell you about the cellist, who has a twin he often switches places with."

"I take it you are the only one who notices this?" I asked with a laugh.

"Indeed," Mr. Holmes said. "That is not to mention the conductor, who bears distinct signs of having escaped from the Russian army."

"You must tell me when we return to our seats," I said, extracting a promise from him that he would. I reflected that John had been right. Mr. Holmes was quite as entertaining as any concert in his own right. I would have to invite him to dinner soon. In fact, I would have to scold John for not telling me how very enjoyable his friend could be. Eccentric, indeed!


	29. Chapter 29

Prompt: Dr. Watson stuck in a time loop, from .coat

* * *

"Holmes!" I cried out as I saw my friend lose his balance after knocking out the thief we had been hired to catch and begin to fall from the edge of the roof.

Then I woke up, with no clear idea of how I had come to be there. In my own room, at 221b Baker Street, in my own bed. I hastened downstairs, to ask Holmes how the fight had ended. I could only assume that I had been knocked out and was only now coming back to myself. Who was it who had carried me back to our rooms? Was it Holmes? It could not have been, he had been about to fall from the edge of the roof. How had he survived? Perhaps he was even now in hospital, and I quickened my pace.

Only to find Holmes seated at his armchair with a pipe, looking for all the world as relaxed as if last night had never happened. "Ah, Watson. Mrs. Hudson has left a breakfast platter for you," he said.

I stared at him. "How did we escape last night, Holmes?" I asked. "That fiend had you against the edge of the building. I must have been knocked out! Did Scotland Yard arrive in time?"

"My dear Watson, whatever are you on about?" Holmes asked. "We spent last night here among the newspapers and monographs, do you not remember? You grumbled about the sudden turn in the races and I was engaged in editing my small work on the different makes of carriage wheels."

"No," I said, "No, it cannot be true." Before I had a further chance to explain myself, the page announced the arrival of a client. To my surprise, the man, when he entered, was the very same client as yesterday, in whose service we had ended up on the roof. The man was well-dressed, intelligent and refined, though he fingered his hat nervously as he approached.

"Forgive my interruption. I have a problem of a most delicate nature, that I soon fear will become a crime past all imagining."

At Holmes's urging, he told us his story, an affair of a disgruntled employee who he believed was breaking into his place of business to make off with the profits. What was most interesting to me, however, was that this same man had given us the same story yesterday, with not a difference in wording.

"A pretty problem, Watson," Holmes said, in exactly the same words he himself had used yesterday. "There are factors of interest, though the motive is clear as day. Still, determining how the fellow is getting into the building is worthy of at least two pipes."

"But you said this yesterday!" I burst out, unable to contain myself. "Do you not remember, Holmes, that we had this same case yesterday afternoon?"

"Watson, are you feeling quite well?" Holmes asked. "Of course we did not have this same case yesterday? I certainly should have remembered it!"

He, of all people, would have, and I fell silent as he smoked his two pipes before inviting me to go out on a walk. Perhaps something was wrong with my memory? Could I have been hit in the head hard enough to relive an entire day in my mind? As we ambled through the streets, I listened as he listed the very same deductions as he had yesterday and laid out the very plan that had ended with us on the roof. It seemed to me we had even passed the same people yesterday - the flower-seller on the corner arguing with the fruit-seller next to her over their shared space, the cab that veered out of the way of a boy with his ball. It was a puzzle, and if only Holmes would believe me, I had no doubt he should be able to figure it out.

We went through all the same motions as yesterday until we came to the same roof to catch the thief, and once again Holmes stood at the edge. Perhaps, knowing it was coming, I would be able to stop it this time. I started towards him, only to cry out in alarm as he began to fall. "Holmes!"

I awoke again in my bed in Baker Street. This time, I was not as surprised to find Holmes seated at the armchair. "Ah, Watson. Mrs. Hudson has left a breakfast platter for you," he said again.

"Holmes, do you really not remember we have done this twice before?" I said. "In barely ten minutes, a client will be shown up to us."

"I shall take that bet," Holmes said, though he seemed to think nothing of it when the very same client appeared again and told us the same story he had. I studied Holmes carefully. Could it be he truly had no idea we had lived through the same twice already? He had little patience for extraneous facts, and would be thoroughly bored being told the same story three times. Yet he seemed as interested as if he had never heard it before.

He smoked the same two pipes and invited me on the same walk, where I observed the very same flower-seller arguing with her neighbor. "That cab will soon veer away from the boy with the ball," I said to Holmes, pointing out the cab in question.

"Watson, please tell me you have not decided to become a clairvoyant!" Holmes said. "You know how I detest such charlatans!"

"I have not!" I said indignantly. "Simply watch, Holmes." Sure enough, the cab in question veered exactly as I said it would. Holmes turned to look at me in amazement.

"You noticed the boy and correctly predicted the cab would move in time. You are developing, Watson!"  
"No!" I said. "I knew because I have seen this before."

"Well, it promises to be an interesting problem," Holmes said. "When we have finished with this case remind me to turn my attention to it."

That was not to be, for we once again found ourselves at the roof's edge, exactly where we had been the last two nights. I was determined, this time, to get to Holmes before he could fall. Perhaps, knowing what would happen as I did, I would be able to stop it this time. I had an idea that if I could only see what came after that moment, this nightmare might end.

"Holmes!"

It was not to be. I could not overcome the thief's accomplice who held me back, and I again woke to find myself in my Baker Street bedroom.

"Ah, Watson. Mrs. Hudson has left a breakfast platter for you."

"Not again, Holmes," I said wearily.

"She leaves you one every day, old fellow. Shall I tell her you no longer desire breakfast?" Holmes asked.

"Holmes, you must listen to me!" I said urgently. "We have been living the same day over again for the last three days!"

"That is impossible, Watson," Holmes said. "Even if it were not, how should you notice and not I?"

"I don't know!" I cried. "I only know that it is true. In ten minutes, a man shall come through that door, asking for our help, and we shall end the night on the rooftop of his company, you about to fall from the edge. After that, I always awake and start the day over again."

It happened exactly as Holmes said, and I saw him give me a quizzical look as the client arrived. Yet, knowing him as I did, I knew he did not entirely believe me. However, I knew one way to ensure that he would. "You were about to say that this man was recently promoted to a new position in his company, is not yet married but is planning to propose to his intended, and does a great deal of playing cards. Oh, and he recently had electric installed in his house," I said, rattling off the deductions I had heard Holmes give three times already.

I saw Holmes's eyes widen, though when the man left he turned to me. "Well, Watson, I see you are learning something of deductions! This is excellent."

I resisted the urge to hang my head, merely allowing him to continue with his two pipes. "A pretty problem, Watson," he said. "There are factors of interest-"

"You have said this already," I said.

"Have I? Well, perhaps we should take a walk. I have an idea as to how we should catch this fellow."

I walked as if in a dream, sidestepping the flower-seller and the fruit-seller and pulling Holmes out of the way of the veering cab without a thought. I was lost in trying to determine how I should get out of this mess. Yet by that night, as we again climbed up to the roof, I was as lost as I had been for the last three days. I was so distracted I was hardly able to pay attention to my fight, and only waited for the moment I knew would come. Were we to be doomed to live out this day forever? There had to be some way to get out of it. "Holmes!"

I awoke again in Baker Street, and this time, instead of heading downstairs as I normally did, I immediately dressed myself to go out. I knew there was but one man in the country who might be able to help me. "Ah, Watson. Mrs. Hudson has left a breakfast platter for you," Holmes said as I appeared. I did not answer and instead left Baker Street altogether. Perhaps I had to refuse to engage entirely in this farce to do something about it.

I arrived at the Diogenes Club and requested a meeting with Mycroft Holmes in the Strangers Room. When he arrived, I confess I was quite overcome. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I do not know what to do!"

"That is, I suspect, what my brother is accustomed to hearing from his visitors," Mycroft said, not unkindly. "I, however, am not. What exactly is the trouble, Dr. Watson?"  
"I know you shall think me mad when I explain it," I said. "But it is the truth. I have been living the same day over again for the past four days! I tell you, every detail is exactly the same!" I detailed the things I had noticed - things Holmes had said to me, the nature of his client, the people I had noticed on our walk, ending with the fight on the roof.

Mycroft, when I had finished, appeared quite interested. I began to hope that he might not disbelieve me. "Come with me, Dr. Watson," he said, and I followed him through a door I had never noticed before, and then down a flight of steps.

The underground chamber we went into was as brightly lit as if it were daylight, and I was amazed. No electric lights I had seen mimicked daylight so well. There were tables, and what appeared to be electronic inventions all about, none of which I could identify. I looked around with interest. "W?" Mycroft asked. "I have something for you."

A man turned around from the far side of the room. His features were nondescript save for his large mustache. "M?" he asked.

"M?" I asked Mycroft quizzically. I had never heard him called so informally, even by his own brother.

"Oh, do forgive me, Dr. Watson. I am, as my brother may have told you, more influential in the British government than I would have most people believe. As such, I have access to the resources of departments vital to our security, whose existence I prefer to keep secret. As such, I find it a benefit that none should know I am involved with them."

I understood this to mean some sort of intelligence service, and I nodded quickly. Mycroft smiled. "Good. Dr. Watson, this is W., our technological wizard. W, Dr. Watson. I believe he might be able to do something about your little problem. It's a time loop, I believe." This last was said to the man with the mustache, W., who looked at me with new interest.

"Oh, yes. I have some experience with time and its motions. I shall certainly be able to help you." He led us through a labyrinth of corridors until we reached a small room with only one contraption in it. It looked rather like an automobile, but one without wheels. "I should like you to sit in that," W. said. "Time loops are unusual things. Usually, they mean that something must be done, or more usually, undone for it to break."

"Time loops?" I asked.

"Yes," W. said. "Were you doing anything, when you noticed it start?"

"Why, yes," I said, and again relayed the story of Holmes and I on the roof.

"Excellent. It makes it much easier if we have a specific point," W. said. "I will ask you to sit in this, Doctor." He indicated the contraption on the ground. "This device will take you to the exact moment of that fight so you may take your counterpart's place and prevent Mr. Sherlock Holmes from falling off that roof. Evidently, that is the moment at which Time chose to break. I can only conjecture that the continued existence of Mr. Holmes is essential in some way."

"I expect so," Mycroft said. "I hardly know what my brother gets up to, but it seems likely we will need his services at some point or another."  
"I shall go with you to switch out your counterpart," W. said. "I will take him back with us, and once Time rights itself, the extraneous Watson will simply melt away into his own timeline."

That did not sound very pleasant, but I understood little about these thing. "Do you mean to tell me that you mean to travel back to last night? That this machine in here can travel through time?" I asked incredulously.

"Indeed," W. said. "As I said, I have some experience in these matters, though I have honed the technology since then."

I looked at W. again and I had a sudden flash of intuition as I put certain facts together. "You cannot be Mr.-"

"No time" W. said suddenly. "Come, Doctor." He sat in the contraption himself and not a second after I followed, the underground room disappeared around us and it was night again. I looked around, recognizing the rooftop. I turned and saw Holmes about the fall, heard myself cry out before the sound was suddenly cut out. A glance told me that W. had succeeded in getting my counterpart onto the time machine, and I did not stop to see it disappear. I ran towards the edge of the roof and grabbed Holmes before he fell.

"Why, thank you, my dear Watson," Holmes said. "That was quite a feat, to get here so quickly from across the roof!"

He did not appear to have noticed, a near miracle, though perhaps nearly falling from a precipice does tend to limit one's perception of their surroundings. "It is good that I did," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "Just in time, as well."

I laughed aloud, as he had no idea how very much time had to do with it. "Come, Holmes, let us go back to Baker Street." Where, with any luck, I would at last awake on a new tomorrow.

* * *

A/N: I took as fact a fan theory that Mycroft was the original M. of the James Bond universe, and expanded that to include a W. in the place of Q. If you didn't catch it, he's H.G. Wells.


	30. Chapter 30

Prompt: A surprising talent is revealed, from mrspencil

A/N: Short response today, as I will be out for most of the day

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was the most exemplary of landladies, as one would have to be to accept such eccentricities as my fellow-lodger considered commonplace. She said nothing about the constant stream of odd characters that trooped through her house, the smell of chemicals and the odd hours kept by both Holmes and myself. The most that ever passed her lips was the occasional remonstrance about Holmes's indoor firearm practice. All in all, she was a patient and devoted lady.

The one thing our estimable landlady did insist on, however, was to leave for two weeks during the summer to visit her sister in Cornwall. The first of these visits was during the second summer I lived at Baker Street, and I am afraid that our rooms saw a considerable decline in cleanliness and comfort while she was gone. Without her firm hand to see to it, Holmes and I simply left all our possessions wherever they happened to be and I was soon unable to see either our desk or our dining table underneath the pile of papers that accumulated there. We also spent much time eating out, as Mrs. Hudson was cook as well as landlady, and for the first week we greatly enjoyed trying the many restaurants I could not go to last year due to my recovery.

However, by the second week of this, neither our finances nor my still-fragile health could take much more of eating heavy, restaurant food, and I resolved that we should do better until Mrs. Hudson returned. One afternoon, some time before dinner, I made my way down into her kitchen. I was no great cook, but I prided myself on my ability to make simple dishes - a potato soup, a roast chicken, things of that nature. In the army, I had been well thought of for my sausages. I had not cooked since then, but I reasoned that a well-set-up kitchen could only make things easier. After all, in the army, when I had cooked it had been over an open flame!

I soon had a pot of potatoes boiling over the fire and was preparing some onions and parsley to go into the soup when Sherlock Holmes burst into the kitchen. "Watson? Whatever is that smell?"

"Our dinner, I should hope," I answered. "We have been far too free with restaurants this week, Holmes."

Holmes stared at the pot on the fire and then turned his gaze on me at the counter, cutting vegetables. "I did not know you knew how to cook," he said.

I shrugged. "I am no great chef. I learned in the army. It behooves any man in such a situation to be able to provide for himself."

"Yes, yes, that is all very well," Holmes said dismissively. "But you misunderstand me. _I _did not know you could cook!"

"Well, I hardly cook at all," I said. "You have never seen me do it before."

"But, Watson," Holmes said. "I could tell you were a writer and a doctor and a soldier with merely a glance. I did not say it at the time but I also observed signs that you had once played rugby proficiently. However did I miss that you could also cook?"

"Oh," I said, nearly laughing and stopping myself only just in time. Holmes was as vain about his powers as any famed beauty would be about her looks, and it appeared his failure to notice this one thing about me had thrown him completely. "It is hardly important, Holmes," I said.

"Watson, the signs of cooking are quite apparent. Anyone who cooks bears at least one burn scar, usually on the wrist or the palm of the hand. If what you say is true, you would have cooked over an open flame. To miss such a sign is an utter failure on my part! Especially as I see you every day. You do realize that means I have missed these very signs for over a year!"

"Holmes, when I say I knew how to cook, I mean that I have done it only enough to become proficient. I did not do so nearly often enough to bear enough burn scars that they would be noticeable."

"I notice everything, Watson. It is my livelihood. What else have I missed, that might have led to a conviction or an innocent man going free?"

"Holmes!" I cried. "You really must not beat yourself up about this. Why, did you not tell me yourself that trivia and useless knowledge is not worthy of remembering?"

"Yes," Holmes muttered. "It takes up space in my brain-attic."

"Well, it can hardly be relevant at all that I have some small cooking ability," I said. "Perhaps you had noticed it and deleted it." I had my own opinions about his brain-attic theory, namely that it was quite a bit of hogwash. One never knew when certain facts would come in useful, and it seemed to be that a detective in his unusual position would want to store away as many facts as possible in case they were needed. Further, I had a medical degree and he did not, and I knew very well that was not how memory functioned. But Holmes was most stubborn on this account, and I had quickly learned that arguing with him was a pointless exercise.

"Watson, I should think I would remember such a fact about my own fellow-lodger," Holmes said.

I confess I did wonder what that might mean. Did he consider me enough of a friend that knowing my skills and likes and dislikes were important regardless of their relevance to a criminal case? Or simply that it was useful to him to know as much about the man he lived with as possible, to make cohabitation easier? I suspected I would never know. "Perhaps, Holmes, if you wish to observe me cooking, you might help me? I need someone to cut this parsley."

"Oh. Yes, of course," Holmes said. "It smells quite delicious, Watson. Perhaps it is a useful thing, to have a fellow-lodger who can cook."

"That was the army's idea," I said. "Though I suspect Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased I used her kitchen while she was gone."

"We shall clean it so perfectly she will never know," Holmes said.

I was utterly surprised by this. I had yet to see him clean anything in our shared rooms. "You, Holmes, will help me clean?"

"Of course," he said. "I have no wish to be on the receiving end of Mrs. Hudson's wrath." He gave me a sly look. "You are not the only one with hidden talents. Did it not occur to you that knowing how to properly clean a crime scene is a useful skill for a consulting detective."

"Now that you say so, I can see your point," I said.

"There are other uses," Holmes said. "Being able to cover one's tracks so no one can follow is a most useful skill, one I have used on many an occasion."

The only possible use I could see for such a skill was to conduct break-ins, and I wisely decided not to ask. Instead, I simply instructed Holmes on the proper way to cut parsley so that we might eat in peace.

I confess I quite enjoyed being in the position of the master for once!


	31. Chapter 31

Prompt: An old Watson goes to a curmudgeonly and world-wearied Sherlock Holmes, begging the detective to come out of retirement for one final case., from Michael JG Meathook

A/N: And that ends another December challenge. I had so much fun doing this, and a big thank you to Hades Lord of the Dead for organizing this every year, and to everyone who participated. I loved reading everyone's responses! Hoping to be more active in this fandom next year as well until another December Challenge begins. Happy 2020!

PS: This is set right before _His Last Bow. _Apologies for another war-related response but the prompt really fit it and I cannot get WWI out of my head. Clearly I need to write something larger about it.

* * *

It was a beautiful spring day as I boarded the train from London to Sussex Downs, though my mind was too unsettled to truly enjoy it. This was no mere visit to my old friend Sherlock Holmes for a pleasant day in the countryside. Mycroft Holmes's last words to me refused to settle in my mind, instead driving me to worry.

_You may be the only one who can convince him, Doctor_. Mycroft's worried face rose up in my memory.

_Is it really so bad as all that? _I had asked in alarm. I had listened to him lay out the facts of the situation in Europe in some shock. I was not ignorant of the politics of the day, after so many years watching ever more horrible wars across Africa and Asia, and once between France and Germany on the very shores of Europe. Still, war seemed so far away as to be unimaginable.

_Worse, I expect_, Mycroft said, and as he said it he looked every year of his sixty-some years. _If war does come it will be unlike anything any of us have seen, yes, even you, Doctor. We shall need every advantage if we are to emerge intact. My brother's abilities are unique, and I cannot think of anyone better suited to this position_

I had been sent, therefore, to convince Sherlock Holmes to come out of retirement one last time. Mycroft had explained very little of the job to me, save that it would involve time spent undercover, gathering information for our future war effort. I agreed with Mycroft absolutely, that there was no one in England who could do the job better than my friend, yet I knew I should have a job convincing him. In his retirement, Holmes had become weary of the world and all in it save myself, his violin and his bees. I thought it likely that he would refuse all entreaties to return to service. Perhaps that is why Mycroft sent me in his stead. He knew Holmes would have a harder time refusing me. Mycroft had, at times, a manipulative streak that was turned in service to his country, and no country ever had a more dedicated public servant.

I arrived at the lonely Sussex train station and found a carriage waiting for me. That Holmes himself had not come told me he knew of the reason for my visit. No doubt Mycroft had attempted to convince him to take the position before. Yet, Holmes was still a perfect gentleman, and the hired carriage dropped me off at his front door. "Ah, Watson!" Holmes said, straightening up from where he had been tending to a beehive in his front garden. "Welcome."

"Thank you, old friend," I said, shaking him warmly by the hand. "I very much enjoy visiting here, you know that."

"Yes, though I wish that this visit was for a better reason," Holmes said. "You shall not convince me, Watson. I am retired and determined to remain so."

This before we had even entered his cottage. Once we did, I put down my bag and settled into the armchair by the fire, where Holmes offered me a cigar from the trusty coal-scuttle which had followed him from Baker Street. "Mycroft seems most concerned," I said. "It was a surprise to me to see him so worried. Do you not think there will be a war, then?"

"Oh, no, Watson. There certainly shall be," Holmes answered. "Mycroft has never been wrong to my knowledge, and I think it likely that the war, when it comes, will be a horror unlike any conflict yet seen on this earth."

"And yet you refuse to do your part to assist your country?" I asked.

"In what way is it my part, Watson?" Holmes asked sharply. "This war is none of my making. The politics of nations are the purview of fools, usually the fools running those nations, getting us all into nonsensical wars that cause nothing but harm. All before they do what they ought to have done from the beginning: sit down and work out their differences at the negotiating table. But our 'great leaders' would rather see thousands of young men die in the fields for glory rather than take the high road."

Rarely had Holmes been so adamant about anything. I turned his words over in my head. I could not disagree with him. As someone who had seen war I could not do otherwise. I had seen young men, my comrades, die in the dry fields of Afghanistan and alone in hospital beds in Bombay.

"All they need do is talk to stop this war in its tracks," Holmes said more quietly. "Yet instead of that, all these so-called great men are making plans to ensure that they will be better able to send men to fight and die than their neighbors. Yes, even my brother!"

"You are not wrong, Holmes," I said. "Yet, could it not be true that if you take this position - and I do not know much of what it is - you might prevent some of those deaths?"

"I may prevent the deaths of some of our English soldiers, and yes those of the French, by causing the deaths of German and Austrian ones," Holmes said. "Can you truly say that they deserve their fate, any more than the English and French will? War is indiscriminate, my dear Watson, and we are all humans, are we not? This will be a pointless charade, engineered by monarchs and politicians and the young men who fight in it have nothing to do with the tangled web of alliances that brought us here."

"I don't pretend to understand the politics of it," I said. "I doubt anyone does. And you are quite right, Holmes, that the Germans are hardly any different than we are ourselves. Yet, should England fall…" I trailed off, the thought too horrifying to contemplate. "Holmes, we must do whatever it takes to prevent that."

Holmes had always been patriotic in his way, and I could tell that the idea gave even him pause. "I have seen too much of the world, Watson. I have seen crime that would be unimaginable to the ordinary man. I know what humanity is capable of. All I wish is to be left in peace with my bees."

I felt immediately sorry that I had agreed to come. Had my friend not earned his peace, after so many years service? Yet I knew my friend well. I had often been on the receiving end of letters bewailing the boredom of the countryside. For all that he loved his bees, Holmes had never learned to thrive in the peace of the countryside, and I thought it not unlikely that some of his current attitude was due to this. "Holmes, such a case would be the pinnacle of your career," I said.

"Moriarty was the pinnacle of my career, Watson," Holmes said.

"Twenty years ago, Holmes. No one remembers Moriarty now. You are right, this is a new age with new threats that make Moriarty himself seem quaint by comparison!" I said. "I know I should feel easier in my own service if I knew you had turned your powers upon this war and done what you could to ease our way."

"Your service, Watson?" Holmes asked.

I shrugged helplessly. "Holmes, if we are to go to war, I cannot do else but offer my services to the Army once more. I have experience that will be beneficial, and I cannot do less than men half my age will do."

Holmes remained silent and I knew then that I had surprised him. "Watson, you cannot be serious," he finally said.

"I am perfectly serious," I said.

"You are sixty years of age!"

"I am aware of that," I said. "I am sure the Army can find a use for me. If this war is to be as horrible as you and Mycroft say-" and I had no doubt that it would be, so deeply did I trust my friend's judgment - "then we shall need every doctor at the front."

Holmes, for all his brain power, had never been to war. But he had heard of its horrors, from me and from his brother, and I knew he was contemplating the many outcomes this one could have. I knew as well as he that my chances of surviving this conflict, when it arrived, were not high. He was quite right that I was sixty years of age, and I carried injuries that would make service difficult. But I was determined to do my part.

"Well," Holmes said at last. "You have surprised me, Watson. I rather thought that if there is a war we would spend it here, watching it go by."

I paused. "Holmes," I said, recognizing the invitation for what it was. "I shall be honored to join you here, when the war is over."

The words _should I survive_ hung between us, as if by saying it we should make it come true.

"In that case, Watson, I shall tell Mycroft I will accept the position he has offered me," Holmes said finally. "I cannot do less than you, old friend. If in some way my service shortens this war, well, then, it will be worth it."

"Thank you, Holmes," I said. "Mycroft will be grateful as well."

"I am not doing it for him," Holmes said. "Now, before we must start this unpleasant business, there is a very nice tavern in the town that does an excellent side of beef. I suggest we go there for dinner and spend the evening in front of the fire, as in the old days."

"I should like nothing better," I said.

So it was that Sherlock Holmes undertook the greatest role of his career, though when I published it as _His Last Bow_, I of necessity altered some small facts so that readers should never know of how reluctantly he took the job. To the reading public, Holmes was a hero of the highest order, and in this, his last and greatest case, I was determined to ensure that he remained one.


End file.
